Incognita
by know1knows
Summary: Now complete! What is the sadistic entity that has attached yourself to Sam? What does she want with him? And how far will she go to get it? Can Dean stop her before she goes too far? Hurt captive Sam/concerned, hurt Dean. Rated for language and violence
1. Chapter 1

_New story so time to reiterate all the standard disclaimers:_

_Not mine, never will be. Not making any money. Just having a bit of fun. Anything else I forgot._

_Yadda, yadda, yadda._

_Enjoy! (I hope.)_

* * *

**Incognita**

"Okay," demanded Dean as he strode angrily in the cramped motel room, slamming the door noisily behind him. "Where is it?"

"Where's what?" asked Sam absently, not bothering to look up from his laptop.

"Don't gimme that. You know what."

"No, Dean, I don't," replied Sam. "What are you talking about?"

"Ohhh, you do so know what I'm talking about. You know because you're the one that took it. You just don't want to admit it."

"How can I admit that I took something if I don't even know what you're talking about?" queried Sam, obviously exasperated with his older brother now.

Dean sighed. "My tape. The one that's been in the player since we left Blackstone."

Sam rolled his eyes at the memory of being forced to listen to the same tape over and over for the last 300 miles. "You mean that one by Vermin? Into the Basement or whatever it's called."

"Out of the Cellar. By Ratt."

"Whatever," scoffed Sam. "I still didn't take it."

"Then where is it?"

"How the hell should I know?"

"Other than me, you're the only person who's been in my car. And you were the last person to drive it. The tape was there when you drove it to City Hall. And now it's gone. Who else coulda took it?"

"I don't know, Dean. But why would I take it? I know it would just piss you off. What possible motive could I have for doing that?"

"What is this, Shapiro?" challenged Dean. "A court of law?"

Sam didn't answer. This was getting more ridiculous by the moment and he just stared at his brother.

"Well if you didn't take it," ordered Dean, "Go out and find it."

Sam groaned loudly. "Fine."

Sam stormed outside and rummaged through the interior of the Impala. He looked everywhere. Inside the glove compartment, under the seats and all around the back seat. Sam even checked in the trunk. But the tape wasn't in the car. Finally Sam gave up looking and went back inside.

"Did you find it?" inquired Dean.

"No. It's not there, Dean. I don't know where it is."

"Funny, 'cause I do," stated Dean vehemently before he tossed something at his brother. "Look what I found it under your pillow."

Sam clumsily caught whatever it was that Dean had thrown at him and carefully scrutinized it. It was the tape in question.

"Well, I don't know how it got there, Dean" was all he could think of to say. "I didn't put it there."

"Then who did?" accused Dean.

"How should I know?"

By the time they retired for the night, they still weren't speaking to each other but an uncomfortable calm had settled between them. Dean remained angry; positive that Sam was lying to him because he hated the music from the '80's and had asked him to change the tape more than once while they had traveled to this town. For his part Sam was both annoyed and perplexed; he was irked that Dean didn't believe him as well as extremely puzzled as to how the tape had ended up underneath his pillow. Even he had to admit that it didn't make much sense.

But Sam did know that however it had gotten there he hadn't been responsible. Playing around with Dean's music collection, if you could actually call it that, was one of the quickest ways to piss him off. The only way to rile him faster was to misuse the Impala. And he saw almost anything as an abuse of his precious car. That was why Sam rarely drove it. All he had to do was step on the brake just a little too hard and Dean would jump down his throat. It simply wasn't worth it. Better to leave the driving to his brother and not risk a confrontation.

Which is why this didn't make sense. But Sam didn't know how he was going to convince Dean of that and he figured that if the tables had been turned he'd probably react exactly like Dean was. After all there really wasn't another explanation then that he had taken it.

Or was there?

The next morning Sam and Dean headed out to the cemetery on the outskirts of town, looking for the graves of a family that had been killed in a traffic accident just outside of town in 1978. They'd been hit head-on by a drunk driver and the entire family had perished. Ever since that time the entire stretch of highway had seen more than its share of traffic accidents and fatalities. Survivors of car accidents in that area often described trying to avoid the same things: small children and running across the road with their mother chasing them. The hapless motorists all ended up entwined in the trees that made up the woods just off the road.

Sam and Dean knew it had to be the ghosts of this family that was haunting the highway. It wasn't that they were malevolent spirits but for whatever reason they hadn't passed on. The brothers wanted to put them to rest. They couldn't be left in limbo. Not only was it unfair to them but they were also causing the deaths of innocent people. Sam was hoping that a pagan emancipation ritual he had discovered would be able to free their souls and finally let them rest. It would be less harsh then torching the bones. That was usually reserved for benevolent spirits; ones who were intentionally killing people.

And they wouldn't have to wait long to find out if the ancient ritual actually worked. The thirtieth anniversary of the car accident was tomorrow and if the emancipation rite didn't work, the ghosts would be most certainly return to the highway where they had died. And if that happened, Sam and Dean would have no other choice but to salt and burn the bones.

The drive out to the cemetery was long and tense. Dean was still angry and he resisted every attempt Sam made to talk to him. Sam realized it was useless and he eventually quit trying. The remainder of the trip was made in complete silence. Dean hadn't put a new tape in the cassette player and he didn't even turn on the radio. It was a very disquieting trip; probably even rivaling the drive back to Stanford almost three years ago.

They drove unhindered into the cemetery and within 45 minutes they had located the burial plots. Standing silently in front of the headstones, Sam and Dean both read the terse inscriptions on the headstones. The father, Mike Richards, had been 31 years old and the mother, Susan, 29. It was the same ages that their parents had been when their mother was killed by the demon. And to make it even more disturbing, the eldest child had been a 5 year-old boy named Joshua, only a little bit older than Dean had been on that dreadful night back in 1983. The youngest child was three-year-old Hanna. Their entire family wiped out by a senseless accident.

"When we come back to do this tonight," Dean stated flatly, "It better work."

It was the first thing he had said to Sam all day.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

After finishing scoping out the cemetery and buying the supplies they needed to perform the ritual, Dean drove Sam back to the motel. He didn't even bother to get out of the car. As soon as Sam exited the vehicle, Dean squealed the tires out of the parking lot. Sam watched him go. Although Dean hadn't said where he was going, Sam had a pretty good idea nonetheless. His brother was probably headed off to some bar in search of female company. And he'd find it too. He always did.

Sam just hoped it would be enough to make him forget about the tape and put him in a better mood.

When Sam entered the motel room he was immediately apprehensive. Something wasn't right, although he couldn't put his finger on it. He quickly scanned and searched the room and couldn't find anything out of the ordinary. Maybe it was nothing more than the maid having straightened up the room.

Sam retrieved his laptop and sat down at the table in front of the window. He wanted to see if he could uncover any more information about the ritual they were going to perform that night. But when he opened the internet, it came up to an unfamiliar page; the screen displayed whimsical flashing images of hearts and roses surrounding a famous love poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning:

**How Do I Love Thee?**

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height

My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight

For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.

I love thee to the level of everyday's

Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.

I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;

I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.

I love thee with the passion put to use

In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose

With my lost saints,--I love thee with the breath,

Smiles, tears, of all my life!--and, if God choose,

I shall but love thee better after death.

Sam stared in utter bewilderment at the computer screen. He didn't know how had it could have gotten there. He knew he hadn't put it there. And Dean certainly hadn't either. It wasn't his brother's style and he was still why too upset to have done this as a joke.

So what, if anything, did it mean?


	2. Chapter 2

They returned to the cemetery just after dark

Sam didn't bother mentioning the poem he had found on his laptop to Dean because he knew that it wouldn't be worth it. Dean would either tease him relentlessly about it or accuse him of fabricating the whole thing in a lame attempt to explain the incident with his "stolen" cassette tape. Especially if Sam confessed as to what poem had appeared on the screen. Besides, if Dean really was responsible for altering the homepage of his laptop, he'd pretty much go nuts if Sam didn't say anything about it.

And that would definitely be well-deserved payback for his insistence that Sam had taken his stupid, outdated cassette in the first place.

They drove back to the cemetery about an hour after dark. The return trip was just as long and uncomfortable as the one they had made earlier that day. Dean's afternoon sojourn certainly hadn't cheered him up at all and the drive was made in complete silence; no conversation or music. Under different circumstances Sam would have ribbed Dean about striking out with the opposite sex. But that didn't seem to be a very good idea right now. Dean was in a foul enough mood. If it was true and he actually had struck out– however unlikely a scenario that might be – teasing him about it would only put him in an even worse mood.

And increase the odds that Dean would haul off and take a swing at him.

Because God knew, it had happened before.

It was usually over something that Sam said that Dean didn't like or agree with. Without uttering a word, Dean would pull back his arm and smack him. And for whatever reason Sam seldom fought back. Maybe it was because he was never angry enough to want to hit his own brother. But more likely it was because, deep-down, he was afraid that they'd end up killing each other. Because Sam figured once he started throwing punches himself, he'd be unlikely to stop. And Dean certainly wouldn't. It just wasn't his style. He'd keep fighting until he either lost or won; there was nothing in between. And somewhere after the first few punches Sam would become so incensed that he'd have just as much of a hard time controlling himself. Then between Sam's size and Dean's brawn it would turn into an all-out war.

So, it was just better to not get started at all.

With no gates to block the entrance, Dean drove the Impala right into the cemetery until he had gotten as close to the gravesites as the narrow roadway allowed. As they drove through the narrow, meadering roadway the boys carefully scanned the area for intruders, but, to their relief, they were the only ones there. They vigilantly scanned the grounds as they walked the rest of the way to the graves where they set about preparing the area around the graves for the ritual, strategically-placing candles at the perimeter of the ceremonial grounds and sprinkling holy water around the cordoned-off space. Pagan rituals had a habit of inviting unwelcome guests and they were hoping the holy water would keep out any unwanted spirits.

Sam scattered a variety of herbs around the graves; each herb held a specific significance: bay laurel was needed to communicate with the dead, rue was for karmic completion, lavender brought peace to the deceased souls, frankincense would allow spiritual transformation, and sprigs of yew would bring a peaceful end to the hauntings. The last thing they did was place effigies of the each member of the deceased family at the base of their tombstones to ensure that the right spirits were summoned and put to rest.

Sam would conduct the ritual while Dean kept an eye out for prowlers, both human and supernatural, who would disrupt the ceremonies and cause something to go wrong. The ritual itself was concise and to the point but it had to be recited once for each spirit: and that's where the danger lay. Because with the evocation of each spirit, it was extremely possible that others would come along with it. Or instead of it. Spirits didn't generally like to be disturbed. They wanted to be left alone and if they smelled a trick in the making, it was possible that they'd try to wiggle their way out of appearing

With everything set up Dean backed cautiously out of the circle, pulling his rock-salt loaded gun, from the waistband of his jeans. After resting his finger gently on the trigger, he lowered the gun to his thigh. Walking slowly around the ceremonial grounds, Dean continually scanned the graveyard, taking special care to watch for movements in the shadows of the nearby tombstones and adjoining woods. It never failed to amaze him that people always chose to bury their dead in a seemingly peaceful country setting. But if they knew the real truth they'd be more inclined to bury them on church property. Open, wooded cemeteries invited spirits. Churchyards tended to keep them out.

Sam looked at his brother, nodded and then consulted the weathered, old book that gave the details for the ritual. Engrossed in the ancient sacrament, he barely noticed the increase in the speed of the wind or the clouds that had moved in from out of nowhere to obscure the moon, leaving the flickering glow from the candles as the only light. All the usual night noises ceased so that Sam's quiet, rhythmic recitation was the only discernible sound. After each ceremony, a cool gust of air swept through the ceremonial area before it disappeared into the ground overtop of the respective spirit's grave.

All four ceremonies were completed without incident and the boys gathered up their supplies. They engaged in some idle chit-chat on their way back to the car, most of which was tailored around the apparent success of the ceremonies. Dean even smiled and joked a few times on the way giving Sam a bit of hope that he'd finally overcome his funk. They cached the weapons and supplies in the trunk and, as he closed the lid, Dean turned to Sam, offering him some unexpected praise.

"Way to go, Sammy. I couldn'ta done it better myself."

"Yeah," was all Sam offered in response, opting out of saying _'As if'._ He wasn't quite ready to test those waters yet.

"What?" queried Dean, slightly taken aback. "That's all you got?"

"Yeah Dean, it is," replied Sam as he headed for the passenger door.

Dean furrowed his brow. "No response as to how I could never do anything better than you? No gibes about my Latin? Nothing like that?"

"No, Dean. Not tonight."

"Why not?"

Sam sighed. "Because I'm tired, Man. I just don't feel like it."

"Aww, come on Sammy. Lighten up. The night's still young. We could scope out a bar. Pick up some chicks. You know, have some fun for a change."

"Not tonight Dean," answered Sam as he slipped into the front seat.

Dean slid into the driver's side and looked over at his brother. "You're about as much fun as a basement full of rats, ya know that, Sammy. What's gotten into you?"

"Nothing Dean. I'm just tired from tip-toeing around you all day. And I don't feel like picking up chicks. Those rituals wore me out. I just wanna go to bed." With that, he laid his head on the back of the seat and closed his eyes.

Dean looked over at his brother and shook his head. "Whatever, Sammy. But you really do need to let loose every once in a while."

"Yeah, sure Dean. But not tonight. Just take me back to the motel, okay? Then you can go do whatever your want. And not have your little brother hangin' around for a change."

"You're not so little anymore Sammy. And I like havin' you around."

Sam opened his eyes and glared at Dean. "Not when you find some girl to pick up."

"Actually Sammy, that's exactly when I like havin' you around."

Sam shook his head, "That's only so you can go home with her and I can take the car back to the motel."

"Well, yeah, there's that...but, she usually has a girlfriend who's also looking for company. And, if I have someone to pawn her off on, it makes it so much easier for me."

"Thanks Dean, but I don't wanna be your flunky. I can get my own dates."

"Ya keep saying that but you've never proved it to me."

"Bite me."

Dean grinned and pulled the car away from the curb. He had driven about three blocks when he noticed he had been drumming his fingers absently on the steering wheel, keeping time with a non-existent song; the radio was still off and he had never bothered to put a new cassette in the tape deck. It was far too quiet and Sam wasn't helping. He had slumped down in the seat about as far as his long legs would allow and had his back turned to Dean, making it look like he was trying to get some sleep.

But if he thought Dean was just going to let him sleep, he had another think coming.

Dean rummaged quietly through his assortment of tapes, looking for one that would scare the bejesus out of Sam. Something loud and obnoxious. Something he could put into the tape player, crank the volume and watch his brother hit the roof as soon as it started to play. After a few seconds, he found the ideal tape: Metal Health by Quiet Riot. Dean turned up the volume button as high as it would go before he inserted the tape. Then he sat back in his seat to wait for Sam's reaction.

Except nothing happened. No music played. Dean checked the tape player; it seemed to be working just fine. Other than it wasn't emitting a sound. Checking it carefully, Dean noticed that the volume had somehow been turned completely down. Perplexed, he reached over and tried to turn it up again. Only it wouldn't budge. The volume button was stuck. Exasperated now, Dean reached over and slapped his brother on the shoulder.

"What was that for?" questioned a very tired and irritated Sam.

"For screwing with my tape player," retorted Dean.

"Screwing with your tape player?" repeated Sam in confusion. "Whaddya mean by that?"

"It won't play" stated Dean angrily. "Whaddya do to it?"

"Nothin' Man. I didn't touch your tape player," replied Sam as he turned over and sat upright.

"Right. Just like you didn't take my tape."

"You're not gonna start in on _that_ again, are you?" asked Sam, running his hands across his eyes. "I already told you. I didn't take it."

"Then tell me," demanded Dean irately, "How'd it end up under your pillow?"

"I don't know Dean."

Frustrated, Dean rolled his eyes but he decided not to pursue the matter. Instead he looked harshly at Sam and ordered, "Just fix the player, Sammy."

"Alright," conceded Sam reluctantly. "But what's wrong with it?"

"Damned if I know. Other than the volume button's stuck."

"Stuck? How?" asked Sam as he reached over to turn the button.

Like clockwork, the interior of the car was instantly filled with the blaring sound of heavy-metal music causing Sam to jump back into his seat. Dean grinned at his brother's discomfort while Sam tried to blot out the music by covering his ears.

He turned toward his brother and remarked flatly, "That's real nice, Dean."

Dean just grinned.

"Does it really have to be that loud?" demanded Sam

"Sorry Sammy, can't hear ya. The music's too loud."

Before Sam had a chance to reply the volume mysteriously decreased.

"How'd you do that?" queried Dean, baffled.

"I… didn't do anything, Dean. I wasn't anywhere near that botton. You saw it yourself."

"Then the tape just turned itself down?"

"Looks that way. Who knows, maybe there's a glitch in the tape. It is pretty old."

"It's not old," decried Dean. "I just bought it last year."

"Yeah, at some second-hand music store," retorted Sam. "But if you don't wanna admit it's old… fine by me. But ya gotta admit the car's old. And the tape deck's old. Either of those could have something to do with it."

Dean huffed and cast a sideways glance at Sam "Just shut up and turn up the volume."

Grasping the volume button between his fingers Sam tried to move the knob. But this time it wouldn't budge. He wrinkled his brow, gripped it harder and tried again. Still nothing.

"It won't move, Dean. I think it's really stuck this time."

"You think it's stuck now, do you Sherlock? Whodda thunk it."

Sam released the knob and rolled his eyes. But as he went to sit back in his seat, the tape suddenly flew out of the cassette player. Sam jerked back just in time for it to avoid hitting him as it flew into the backseat and hit the backrest before crashing onto the seat itself.

"What the hell??" questioned Dean. "How'd you do that?"

Sam raised his arms up as if surrendering. "I had nothin' to do with it, Dean. I swear."

Puzzled, Dean looked in his rearview mirror at the tape lying on the backseat. "You tryin' to tell me my car's haunted?"

"I dunno. Could be."

"How? How could thatta happened?"

"Maybe we conjured up a spirit when we performed those rituals."

"Yeah?" queried Dean angrily. "And just how do you explain how it got into my car?"

"I dunno Dean. Maybe it followed us here. And got inside when it knew where we were heading."

"For what?" demanded Dean. "What possible reason could a spirit have for haunting my car? Other than it's a great car."

Sam shrugged his shoulders; he didn't understand it any better than Dean. He was tired and arguing about it with his brother wasn't going to get them anywhere so he just turned his head to look out the window. Dean glared contemptuously at his brother. There was no reason for the ghost to get in the Impala nor was there any evidence, past or present, that supported Sam's statement. Ghosts just didn't get into people's cars for no reason; they just hung around the area where they'd died.

Turning his attention back to the road, Dean once again rummaged through his tapes. Without even glancing at which tape he picked, he inserted it into the tape player. But just as he was about to push it into the slot, the tape was forcefully yanked out of his hand and thrown violently into the backseat where it joined the other one on the seat. In the next instant the remainder of the tapes rose out of the console and briefly hovered in the space between the two front seats before they began to spin rapidly out of control. The tapes whipped wildly around the interior of the car, creating chaos and confusion and causing the boys to duck out of their way. And just as Dean managed to pull the Impala to the side of the road, the rear window rolled itself down, allowing the cassettes to mysteriously hurl out the open window and fly across the road before landing on the grass on the far side.

Dean threw the car into park, leapt out of the car and ran across the road to retrieve his precious tapes. But as he tried to grab them, they began dancing around his feet He had to resort to stomping on them in order to hold them in place while he grabbed. Ten minutes later, he had collected them all.

Striding impatiently across the street, he spat, "Thanks for the help, Sam."

Sam raised his hands in defeat. "I can't get out of the car. The doors are locked."

"Did you try to lift the lock?"

"No, Dean. I'm a complete moron."

"I've been tellin' you that for years. Took ya long enough to finally admit it," jested Dean. His hands were full so he added curtly, "Let me in."

Sam leaned over and attempted to unlock the door but it was jammed and he couldn't move it. Continuing to try, he looked quizzically out the window at Dean. After several unsuccessful attempts he finally gave up.

"It won't budge, Dean. I guess you'll just have to walk back to the motel."

"The hell I will!" exploded Dean as he sideways-kicked the lower section of the door. "Just figure how to get it open! Now!"

Sam tried once more with the same result. "Sorry Dean, unless you want me to kick the door out, there's not much I can do."

Dean gripped the door handle strongly and jiggled the door. But it didn't do any good. In desperation, he bent down and looked at Sam.

"Be careful where you kick it. You dent my door and I'll freakin' kill you!"

"You sure about this Dean? You really want me to kick out the door?"

"Just do it before I change my mind!"

"Okayyy," wavered Sam uneasily, "If you say so."

Sam shifted in his seat so that his back was resting against the passenger door. With some effort he managed to maneuver his long legs off the floor and onto the driver's seat. Bracing one foot against the seat, he brought the other one up to his hip so he could get enough leverage to kick the door open. But just as he released his leg, the driver's door sprung open on its own, knocking Dean off to the side and causing him to drop all the cassettes. As he tried to regain his balance, the tapes were inexplicably heaved underneath the car. But the car door was open and Dean hastily jumped into the front seat, ignoring the tapes; he didn't want to end up locked out again. Or run over.

Slamming his hand against the steering wheel, Dean cursed, "What the hell is going on?"

Sam remained silent because he didn't have an answer.

"It'll cost a fortune to replace all those tapes," griped Dean as he once again put the car into drive.

The remainder of the drive back to the motel was uneventful. Neither Sam nor Dean talked; there was nothing to say. Dean was mentally caught up in his troubles. What was happening with his car? And why had all his tapes been trashed? For his part Sam was thinking about the earlier events of the day and the removal of the tape the day before. But he still didn't feel the need to mention the poem he had found on his laptop because he didn't have any idea what it meant. Although, he was pretty sure now that Dean hadn't had anything to do with it.

When Dean drove into the motel parking lot, he pulled the Impala to a stop right in front of their door. Reluctant to leave the car, he turned to Sam, "Go check the door. I'll wait here until we know we aren't locked out."

Sam sighed and got out of the car. He approached the door and inserted his key in the lock; it opened with ease. Sam swung the door open before turning around to look at his brother. Dean nodded and got out of the vehicle as Sam proceeded into the room, only to back out just seconds later. He continued staring in horror into the darkened room. Wondering what had happened that had startled his brother so much, Dean raced to the door, busting past Sam and barging into the room.

He clicked on the light switch and was also taken aback by what he saw. His bed was in ruins. The pillows had been ripped and the stuffing was spread all over the bed and the nearby floor. His bedspread had been slit down the middle, the two pieces strewn haphazardly back across the bed. But Sam's side of the room was the complete opposite. His clothes had been neatly folded and everything was tidy and in its place. Deep-blue floral pedals had been carefully spread out all over his bed. The pillows had been repositioned and fluffed.

And on the wall just above the headboard of his bed someone had drawn the very distinctive outline of a flying dove.


	3. Chapter 3

"What the…?" inquired Dean in bewilderment as he turned around to look at his equally confused brother.

But Sam shook his head minutely while simultaneously shrugging his shoulders, both indications that he had no idea what had happened to their room. He slowly stepped back inside and, much more diligently than the previous time he had walked in, scanned the room. As his eyes took in the strange spectacle in front of him, Sam mentally noted the contradictory schism between the two sides of the room.

Not that a mess on Dean's side was really anything unusual, but this was entirely different. And scary.

Sam was just as taken aback by the neatness and order on his side of the room. It instantly reminded him of high school; the time when Rosalie Hudson had shown up on their doorstep and asked if she could come in because she needed help with her homework. Sam had reluctantly let her in before excusing himself to get his books from the kitchen. By the time he returned, Rosalie was nowhere to be found. He quizzically glanced around the living room before opening the front door to see if she'd gone back outside. But she wasn't out there either. He called her name a couple of times but there was no answer. Figuring she must have decided to leave he shut the door and turned back inside. But as he turned around, he came face to face with Rosalie standing directly behind him; her unexpected reappearance caused Sam to jump about three feet in the air. Rosalie sheepishly explained that she had had to go to the bathroom but, later that evening when he wandered upstairs to his room, he found a large, construction paper heart lying in the middle of his pillow. He picked it up and read the carefully scripted prose; it was an invitation to the prom.

But now, instead of a handmade heart, he had flower petals and a dove. Not to mention an inexplicable love poem on his computer.

Only Sam didn't believe these new developments had anything to do with a prom date. It had an entirely different feel.

"At least we know it's a girl," quipped Dean, his weak attempt at humor just barely registering with his dazed brother.

"What's a girl?" Sam replied, his puzzlement evident as he slowly emerged from the fog that had momentarily clouded his mind.

"The spirit, Dumbass," answered Dean in annoyance.

"What spirit?" queried Sam, still not quite following the conversation.

"The one that's taken up residence in my car."

Finally comprehending, Sam remarked, "I doubt what's happened here has anything to do with spirits. Or anything supernatural for that matter." Thinking back to his encounter with Rosalie, he added matter-of-factly, "It's probably just some love-struck teenager trying to get a date."

"Right," answered Dean sarcastically. "Because we just have _sooo_ many friends in Brookfield, Connecticut. All those teenage girls you've gone out with while we've been here…"

"We've only been here two days, Dean."

"And already, some freaky underage chick has fallen for you. Man, you're a bigger Casanova than I thought. Maybe I should start takin' notes."

Sam rolled his eyes in exasperation. Gesturing around the room, he demanded "Okay, explain to me why you think a spirit would do this?"

"Because she's got bad taste in men?"

"Come on Dean, be serious."

"I thought I was."

"Dean, there's absolutely nothing here to suggest that a spirit's involved."

"And there's nothing to suggest it isn't," stated Dean emphatically. "Don't tell me you really believe some hormone-charged sixteen-year-old girl could be behind all this?"

"It just makes more sense, Dean."

"Then what? A yellow-eyed demon that's been after you since birth? 'Cause that's pretty far-fetched too, Sam. It also just happens to be true."

"Okay Dean, I get your point," relented Sam angrily. "Maybe it's not a teenage girl. But there's got to be a better explanation than some love-struck phantom."

"You're right Sam," retorted Dean caustically. "It must have been the chamber maid in the shoddy motel room with a knife, some rose petals and a crayon."

Tired of his brother's sarcasm, Sam rubbed his hands over his eyes and asked harshly, "What makes you so sure it's a ghost?"

"Not a ghost, Sam. A spirit."

"Whatever."

"Think about it, Sammy. My car. This room. They gotta be connected."

"Not necessarily. They could have nothing to do with each other"

"Ahhh, Sammy, you don't really believe that, do you?"

"There's nothing to confirm that what happened in your car is related to…to…this mess."

Dean glanced around the room. "Yeah, there is Sammy. They're both happening to us. You and me. That makes them related in my books."

Sam didn't answer. Sometimes it just wasn't worth arguing with his brother's logic. (Not that he had anything constructive to counter with anyway.)

Dean stared harshly at his brother and, after a moment, he instinctively knew that something was wrong. There was something that Sam hadn't come clean about. "What aren't you telling me, Sammy?"

Sam furrowed his brow and shook his head. "Nothin', Man."

"You're definitely holdin' out on me."

"No Dean, I'm not. There's nothing I'm not telling you."

"Don't lie to me, Sammy! I know you better than you know yourself. And I always know when you haven't told me somethin'."

The two brothers scowled at each other, Sam's trepidation just as apparent as Dean's anger.

Finally, Sam caved. "Alright, there is something."

"I knew it!" exclaimed Dean triumphantly.

"I, I found something on my laptop this morning."

Dean raised his eyebrows and waited for Sam to continue. But when he didn't, Dean prodded him, "How 'bout we don't play Twenty Questions and you just go ahead and tell me."

Sam sighed before he blurted out, "When I turned my laptop on this morning, the homepage was redirected to a poem. A love poem. It just appeared on the screen. I didn't know where it came from or what it meant so I didn't bother to say anything about it."

Dean shook his head. "A love poem?"

"Yeah. 'How Do I Love Thee' by Elizabeth Barrett Browning."

"And you just decided that I didn't need to know anything about this, why?"

"Because," sighed Sam, "I thought you might have put it there."

"Me? Put a love poem on your computer? I like you Sammy, but not like that. And poems? So not my style."

"Right. It's absolutely nothin' like putting Nair in my shampoo or chili powder in place of cinnamon on my toast."

"_Those_ were funny. But a love poem? That's just freaky."

"But it's relatively harmless. Not like your usual pranks. I guess that shoulda been my first clue."

Ignoring the gibe, Dean asked heatedly, "So when exactly were you planning on tellin' me about this? You didn't think it might have been a good time when my tapes started flyin' all over the car?"

"I didn't see how that could possibly be connected to the poem."

"Aw, come on Sammy!" Dean snapped. "What planet are you visitin'? You don't really expect me to believe that it _never_ crossed your mind? It never occurred to you that some supernatural creature or spirit just might be toyin' with the two of us?"

"Well," groaned Sam begrudgingly, "The truth is I didn't want to tell you. You were already in a bad enough mood and I figured you'd just accuse me of putting the poem on the laptop myself to try to explain away the tape you found under my pillow."

Dean raised his eyebrows and nodded his head slightly, an acknowledgement of the truth behind Sam's statement. But he wasn't willing to just let it be. "It still doesn't explain why you didn't say anything to me in the car."

"Can we just drop it, please?" pleaded Sam. "And spend our time tryin' to figure out exactly what's goin' on."

Dean momentarily glared at his brother, before shaking his head in disgust and focusing his attention on the mess on his bed. He grabbed one section of the bedspread only to discover that it had actually been ripped into more than just two pieces. Snatching up the rest of the fragments, he angrily tossed them into the corner. Then he scooped up what was left of his pillows and chucked them on top of the previously discarded bedcovering. Then he marched to the door and flung it open but, before he went out, he stopped and turned back to face his brother.

"Sam, you're coming with me," Dean ordered, jerking his head in the direction of the open door.

"What? No I'm not."

"Yes you are."

"Why?" asked Sam, completely puzzled.

"Because I'm not leaving you here alone. We don't know what that thing's gonna do next."

"It's not gonna do anything, Dean." Glancing at his bed, Sam continued, "Besides, I'm sure I'll be perfectly safe here."

"You don't know that. And I think we should stay together. I want you to come with me."

"Where are you going anyway? It's after midnight."

"Two rooms over. I need new pillows and a bedspread."

"Why don't you just go ask for new ones at the office?"

"And have them charge my credit card for that mess?" responded Dean indignantly, pointing to the pile of linen in the corner.

"It's not your credit card, Dean. Not unless you're Abraham Mosley."

"I am here. And it's a perfectly good card, lots of room still on it. No point rackin' up extra charges." Dean paused and looked intently at Sam. "Ya comin' or what?"

"No Dean. I'm just gonna stay here. I'm a big boy. I can take care of myself."

"You're not. Staying here. Alone. Now com'on. Before I go over there and drag you out with me."

"Nothin's gonna happen while you're gone Dean."

Dean shut the door forcefully and stormed over to Sam. But just before reaching him, Dean was picked up by an unseen force and hurtled across the room where he slammed viciously against the wall. He crumpled to the floor, momentarily dazed.

Sam jumped up and ran over to his brother. Grabbing him by the shoulders, Sam clamored, "Dean! Are you okay?"

Dean opened his eyes and looked at Sam. After a short silence he asked, "See now why I wanted you to come with me?"

"Fine" stated Sam brusquely. "I'll go." He stood up and stepped backwards a few steps to allow Dean the time and space needed to get up on his own.

Dean shakily got to his knees and rested for a moment before he stood up. He lightly shook his head to clear it before rubbing his hand gently over the sore spot on the back of his head. After blinking a couple of times to clear his vision, Dean took a few wobbly steps forward before he finally regained his balance. Seeing how unsteady his brother was, Sam moved ahead of him in order to get to the door first. He held it open for Dean who hesitantly stepped around him, once again stopping as he was about to cross the threshold. Sam urged him on with a brief nod of his head and a verbal acknowledgement that he was going to follow him out.

Then without any warning whatsoever, Dean was mysteriously pushed through the doorway. And at the extra same time, the doorknob slipped out of Sam's hand and he was yanked away from the door. He saw the door swing shut and heard the locks click into place as he lurched back into the room. But as inexplicably as he had been tossed backwards, his momentum slowed and it felt as if someone or something was cradling his back. He was carried over to his bed before being gently laid down on it with a pillow slipped softly beneath his head.

Dean, on the other hand, was hurled violently into the parking lot where, after smashing into the front bummper of his car, he lost his balance, fell to the ground and rolled into the middle of the asphalt lot before coming to a skidding stop. He briefly lay immobile on his stomach, waiting to see if anything else was going to happen and trying to ignore the pain coming from his scrapped hands and knees and shoulders. But he didn't hear or see anything unusual nor was he assaulted again so he hastily scrambled to his feet. Without bothering to wipe himself off, Dean raced back toward the motel room.

As he reached the door, he hastily grabbed the doorknob and tried turning it. But just as he had suspected, it was locked. So Dean placed his ear against the door, trying to make out any sounds that were coming from inside the room. At first he couldn't hear anything but he gradually began to pick up a few faint noises which he immediately recognized as the sound of rapid and heavy breathing. And it wasn't the good kind of heavy breathing either; it was the kind that sounded scared and powerless. As Dean listened intently, Sam's labored breathing grew louder and became more fast-paced until it turned into some sort of mumbling noise. Dean pressed his ear tighter against the door, trying to make out was his brother was saying. After a few tense minutes Dean was finally able to understand Sam's faint murmuring.

Sam was muttering quietly, _"No. Please stop. No. don't"_

At the sound of his brother's obvious distress Dean shook the doorknob as hard as he could. But his aggressive rattling of the door was to no avail.

Still shaking the door, Dean screamed out as loudly as he could, "_Sammy! Sam!"_

"_Dean?_" came the urgent panicky reply.

It was more than Dean could bear. He threw his shoulder against the door but it didn't yield an inch. Undaunted, Dean slammed his shoulder into the door one more time. The door still didn't budge so Dean moved a few feet away from the door, taking a short leap before crashing his shoulder into the door yet again. But none of it seemed to have any affect on the door at all. Dean took a step back from the door with the intention of kicking it in. But just as he thrust out his leg to kick it, an invisible force grasped his ankle, putting an abrupt halt to his efforts. Dean's leg was then raised high into the air, causing him to fall flat on his back. He landed brutally on the ground just as his leg was yanked sideways with enough force to spin him onto his stomach. Fearing what might be coming next, Dean clutched at the concrete sidewalk but there was nothing for him to hold onto. Without even a moment's reprieve, Dean was hauled off the ground and reeled around rapidly in the air, spun around so inhumanly that he passed out after only a couple of rotations. With its victim unconscious, the invisible entity finally released him.

Dean's limb body catapulted through the air, flying over the entire length of the parking lot and landing in a lifeless heap in the empty field on the far side of the motel.

As for Sammy...


	4. Chapter 4

…he was pinned to the bed with an assortment of unseen chains, his arms and legs spread-eagled and tethered to each of the four bedposts. An invisible chain stretched across his groin and was anchored to the sides of the bed, securing his body rigidly against the mattress. Heavy shackles strapped tightly around his wrists and ankles completed the macabre ensemble and the whole array of bindings made it next to impossible for him to move more than an inch or two in any direction.

Still, Sam fought vigorously to free himself, sweat beading on his forehead as he struggled against the weighty, imperceptible bonds. He yanked and pulled on the manacles that encircled his wrists, swiveling his clenched fists back and forth in the iron rings with the hope that he could somehow managed to wiggle them free. But they were far too snug for his hands to slide through and the only thing he accomplished was to slice deep, bloody slits in his wrists on both sides of each handlock.

As he toiled to free his arms, Sam also strove to unfetter his ankles, jerking his legs up and down and in and out, wrenching on the leg-irons in an effort to crack and sever the bedposts. But there wasn't sufficient play in the shackles and he was only able to produce a series of small, ineffectual kicks that, unfortunately, only resulted in cutting thin, jagged gashes in his ankles that filled with blood and quickly spread over his feet and dripped onto the bed linen below.

In spite of his hazardous predicament, Sam continued to yank mightily on the restraints, seemingly oblivious to his bloody lacerations as well as the fact that he really wasn't achieving anything. The only thoughts he had centered around Dean and what horrible fate had befallen him. Sam had to free himself in order to help him because he knew that Dean was in serious trouble. The spirit didn't like him; that much was obvious and she was determined to get him out of the way.

That's why she had chained him to the bed. To stop him from interfering with whatever it was that she was doing to his brother.

After having completely exhausted himself, Sam momentarily stopped struggling. Breathing heavily, he fell back against the bed, letting his arms and legs fall limply to the mattress. He had to recoup his energy and think. A huge twinge of regret washed over him as he realized that he should have said something earlier about the poem; then maybe they would have had a chance to do some research to figure out what kind of spirit they were dealing with and how to successfully fight it. But now he was going to have to do that on his own.

While he was chained to the bed. With no possibility of escape. And without Dean's help.

Because there wasn't much that could keep his brother down. The fact that he hadn't returned since he'd been so violently pushed out the door meant that he must be really hurt. If not something far worse. Contemplating that very real possibility, Sam started to panic, his mind racing with all the horrible things of what might have happened to his brother. His breathing grew faster and louder as he began to hyperventilate and he flung around on the bed as much as the invisible chains would allow, tossing his head back and forth and recommencing his fight with the cuffs that bound him. But once again it proved to be in vain and he quickly sunk into a state of utter despair, losing hope as he was consumed with dread.

Just as he had completely lost heart a strange weight descended upon his torso, feeling exactly like someone had straddled him. There was even the odd sensation of a pair of knees settling into the mattress on both sides of him. Instinctively, Sam arched his back to knock off the unseen assailant as he attempted to pull in both his arms and legs as an added safety measure. But, with so little slack in the invisible chains, there was nothing he could do to rid himself of the interloper and his desperation instantly increased.

The spirit was back and this time she had come for him.

Meaning that she had finished with Dean.

Fighting to hold back his tears, Sam began to grumble, cursing the unknown spirit in hushed undertones. He chastised her for whatever she had done to his brother, knowing full well that the spirit could hear him. After all she was sitting right on top of him and was privy to his ramblings. At first she gave no response and Sam began to wonder if his criticisms were having any effect on her at all. He just wanted to make her mad enough that, seeing as Dean was undoubtedly dead already, she'd kill him too.

But instead of an angry retaliation, a single finger pressed firmly against his lips; a clear signal for him to be quiet. But he had no intention of co-operating. Shaking his head vigorously to dislodge her finger Sam increased his disparaging commentary. The spirit countered his defiance by grasping both sides of his head and digging her fingernails into his skull just above his ears. It was as if a bolt of lightening had exploded inside his mind and Sam groaned against the excruciating pain, immediately launching into a distressing response to the torture she was inflicting. His agony was so intense that he could only plead for release.

"No. Please stop. No, don't"

The words were barely out of his mouth when the motel room door began to shake and rattle on its hinges so intensely that it caused the adjacent window to shudder violently in its frame. And above all the clatter came brother's loud and anxious voice.

"Sammy! Sam!"

Totally surprised and relieved to hear him, Sam answered shakily, _"_Dean?"

The heavy pounding on the door increased exponentially as Dean tried to break it down. Yet, surprisingly, despite all of Dean's efforts, the rickety old door held firm. After a few minutes, the racket stopped and for a brief moment, all was silent again. Dean was preparing to kick the door in.

At that precise moment the spirit took off, releasing Sam's head from her cruel, electrifying grasp and freeing his body from underneath her incorporeal weight. It immediately grew deathly quiet inside the tiny motel room and no further noises filtered in from outside. Dean never had a chance to kick the door in. In fact, Sam didn't hear anything more from him. There was no dialogue, no grunts, no groans; absolutely nothing.

The spirit had gone after his brother again and Sam felt entirely helpless. And useless. He couldn't break the invisible chains nor slip his arms or legs out of the shackles and there was no other viable way for him to free himself. Sam knew that the spirit was throwing Dean around like a rag doll and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

Unless he could figure out how to communicate with the spirit.

After all, she apparently wanted something from him. Probably something akin to companionship. Or love. If he played his cards right, he might be able to trick the spirit into making an agreement: His friendship and attention in exchange for Dean's safety and wellbeing. He'd just have to be careful how he did this. It was never a good idea to get too chummy with a spirit.

"Come back," Sam whispered quietly, trying to keep the trepidation out of his voice. "Please come back. I need to talk to you."

But there was nothing. No sign that she was paying any attention.

So Sam tried again. "Please don't leave me here like this. I want to get to know you." He paused briefly. "I really do. Please come back and talk to me."

Still no response.

Sam was beginning to feel a bit like a fool now for trying to coerce a spirit into communicating with him. Dean would have his head if he knew what he was doing. Or maybe, just to save time, threaten to have him committed to the nearest mental institute. But it was the only thing Sam could think of that might appease the spirit. He was just hoping it would work. Before she killed his brother.

"We have to talk. I can't help you if you don't tell me what you want. Please come back and talk to me."

Not wanting to sound desperate, Sam decided to wait without saying anything more. The spirit would have heard him by now and it would be best if it looked like it was her decision to respond. And it didn't take long for Sam to feel the bed move beside him. He lifted his head up and looked in the spot where the mattress had shifted. He could see a slight impression on the side of the bed. The spirit had come back.

Hoping to sound more inviting than desperate, Sam swallowed hard before asking, "Who…Who are you?"

No answer.

Taking another deep breath to calm his nerves, Sam asked, "What do you want from me?"

It was a second before Sam felt an ice-cold finger slide leisurely down his cheek, starting at his temple and finishing just above his chin. The chilly sensation sent shivers down his spine and he was hoping that the spirit would take it more as a yearning than as the repulsion that it actually was.

Trying hard to rein in his skyrocketing stress, Sam inhaled slowly. "You…want to be friends?"

The weight on the bed shifted, indicating that the spirit had leaned in towards him. He closed his eyes and gulped, not quite sure what to expect. A millisecond latter, a frosty kiss was planted on his cheekbone. Sam's eyes sprung open and he stared into the emptiness in front of him.

"You…You want to be more than just friends?" he queried nervously.

His hand was immediately squeezed in a frigid clasp.

Sam resisted pulling his hand away. "But…But I don't even know you."

The spirit's hand instantly released his hand and moved up to his throat, pressing tightly on his windpipe and cutting off his air. Trying to dislodge her hand, Sam tossed his head sideways but it wasn't enough for her to relinquish her hold.

"No. Don't," croaked Sam hoarsely. "I want to get to know you. But not like this."

The spirit lifted her hand.

Looking in the direction that he thought she might be, Sam asked, "Can you talk?"

No response.

Taking that to be a 'no' Sam uttered, "There must be some way you can talk to me."

For the next few seconds there was dead silence in the room and Sam wondered what the spirit was doing. He glanced around the room, looking for any sign that the spirit was trying to communicate with him. As his gaze swept over the room, his attention was drawn to the dresser on the far wall. His laptop was hovering close to the dresser and it steadily began to drift towards him. Sam didn't say a word as he watched the surreal sight. Nor did he speak as he felt the spirit sit down beside him on the bed and open the laptop. It immediately turned on and the love poem once again appeared on the screen.

Sam choked back his nervousness. "That's nice. Did…Did you do that?"

Just like all his previous attempts there was no reply from the spirit. But the computer jumped to life, quickly flipping from page to page so rapidly that Sam wasn't able to follow it. By the time it had finished the spirit had entered some kind of ghostly chatroom. Sam couldn't help but stare at the computer screen in awe, fascinated by the fact that the spirit was using modern technology to communicate and waiting to see what she would do next.

The screen suddenly went blank long enough for Sam to wonder if something had happened to his computer. Maybe the magnetic properties the spirit emitted were incompatible with the laptop and had somehow buggered up the electronics. But the vacant screen quickly turned into an auburn glow and the spirit began to type:

_Yes. I put the poem there. You like it?_

"It's a nice poem," stated Sam soothingly. He didn't want to freak her out with a truthful admission of how much it had really bothered him.

_I was hoping you'd like it._

"Yeah, I do," replied Sam before changing the topic. "Can you tell me your name?"

_Molly._

"That's a really nice name," affirmed Sam uneasily, wanting to get on her good side. And although he really wanted to question her about Dean, he didn't want to risk upsetting her and ending the conversation. He'd have to hope for the best while he worked to gain her trust.

Glancing down at himself he said, "Ahh, Molly…these chains are really uncomfortable. Do you think you could let me go?"

_No._

"I promise I won't go anywhere."

_Yes you will. You want to help your brother._

She definitely had him there.

Deciding it was best to come clean with her, he acknowledged, "You're right. I am worried about Dean. But I promise I won't try to go look for him if you just tell me he's alright."

_I'm sorry but I can't do that._


	5. Chapter 5

"What do you mean you can't!" snapped Sam irately. "You didn't kill him, did you?"

_He's not dead._

"Then how badly did you hurt him?"

No answer.

"Tell me!" Sam demanded as the grating echo of his angry voice reverberated around the small room. But the keyboard remained still; Molly wasn't answering.

"Molly…" he threatened menacingly

Another brief pause followed before she typed rapidly:

_He'll live._

"That's not what I asked!" barked Sam, totally beyond caring if he pissed her off. "Tell me what you did to Dean or I'm not going to have anything more to do with you!"

_You don't mean that._

"Try me."

_Okay. You win. Your brother's in the field. He'll wake up soon._

"What field? Where?"

_The empty lot next door._

"How'd he end up there?"

_I threw him there._

"How badly is he hurt?"

There was another slight pause before the spirit typed slowly:

_Pretty bad._

Painfully aware that there was nothing he could do to help Dean – or himself, for that matter - Sam concentrated on controlling his anger, knowing that antagonizing Molly would only succeed in prolonging his agony. But he had lost all interest in speaking to her so he turned his head away and stared at the opposite wall as he fought back tears of utter frustration. From behind him he could hear the keys on the laptop typing away madly but he didn't bother to look back. He just didn't see the point.

Nothing she said or did was going to make any difference.

And then, without any warning whatsoever, the manacle encircling his left wrist inexplicably clicked open, setting his arm free. But Sam didn't bother to move it from its stretched out position nor did he turn around to glance at Molly. He couldn't see her anyway and he wasn't about to be taken in by her lame attempt to please him. Besides, nothing had really changed; he was still strapped to the bed.

Lying on the bed listless and disheartened, the fetters securing his legs inexplicably snapped open. Sam flexed and rotated his ankles, grateful that the heavy shackles had finally been removed. But as the circulation returned, the wounds he had inflicted on himself began to hurt more than they previously had, deepening his anger and resolve not to communicate with Molly. Instead, he remained focused on the wall in front of him and gave no acknowledgement of her goodwill.

Besides, it was simply a case of too little, too late. And it wasn't anywhere near good enough. Not with Dean unconscious, alone and severely injured somewhere outside.

Molly's weight shifted off the bed. Unsure what she was planning, Sam closed his eyes, inhaling deeply as he waited for the next round of torture to begin. Except nothing happened. Not for an exceptionally long time. Then the low creaking of the door made it apparent that it was being opened very slowly. Curious, Sam turned to see what Molly was up to. But he was completely unprepared for what he saw.

Seemingly suspended in midair, Dean's limp body was being carried in through the open door. Cradled as he was in the unseen spirit's arms, Dean's head flopped downwards at an awkward, unnatural angle, his face deathly pale and his chest didn't appear to be moving at all. Sam leapt off the bed to go help his brother. But he was still tethered to the bedpost by his right arm and the chain wasn't long enough to allow him to get anywhere near Dean. All Sam could do was watch helplessly as Molly placed Dean onto his bed.

And once again, it looked like it was far too late; with no sign of life emanating from his brother, Sam was sure he was dead.

Desperate to reach him, Sam lurched forward, tugging as hard as he could on the manacle around his wrist, trying to drag his bed closer to Dean's. But his valiant efforts accomplished nothing and Sam spun around in frustration, attempting to grasp the chain in order to use it as added leverage in moving the bed. But his hand shot right through the spot where the chain should have been and the only thing he accomplished was to slap himself heavily on the arm. The problem was that the shackles didn't really exist. Not in this world anyway. They felt real enough and they did the trick but they only existed in the spirit's realm. The chains came from Molly's universe and only Molly, or another spirit just like her, had dominion over them. Sam was, in reality, tugging and yanking on nothing.

Reluctantly accepting his plight, Sam plopped back down on his bed and looked over at his brother. He was appalled by what he saw. Dean's skin was ashen and lifeless; there were scrapes and bruises covering every visual part of his face and body. Streams of blood ran down both sides of his face and joined up with the blood that had seeped from the corners of his mouth. From there, the broad outpouring of blood had trickled down his neck and disappeared under the collar of his shirt, all of which gave him a ghastly vampiric appearance.

Sam could only stare at his brother in frustration; he couldn't get anywhere near the bed to check on him and Dean was in no condition to tell him what he needed. Soliciting Molly for answers probably wouldn't do any good either. The only reason she had gone to retrieve Dean was to placate Sam but he certainly wasn't going to ask for her help.

After a few minutes of gazing inanely at his brother, Sam stood up and ventured as close to his brother's bed as he possibly could, letting the chain on his wrist pull his arm taut. He stretched out his left leg and hooked his foot underneath the bedframe in order to use it to pull the bed toward him. Struggling with the task of moving the heavy bed, Sam adjusted his foot a few times until he was finally able to hook it properly and drag the bed about six inches toward him. Taking a deep breath and moving back a couple of steps, Sam resumed his task, successfully hauling the bed a little bit closer. It was a tough, laborious procedure but Sam was determined to make it work, no matter how strenuous it was.

But just as he pulled the bed within his reach, the lamp from the table beside the window came flying toward him, giving him barely enough time to shield his head before it smashed into his upraised arms and fell to the ground and shattered into a myriad of pieces. Still reeling from the unexpected assault, Sam saw a second lamp being hurtled violently across the room. Ducking quickly out of its path, the lamp crashed harmlessly into the wall on the far side of the room. At the same time, Dean's bed spun back into its original position and the room's last remaining lamp flew off the dresser. Sam lurched out of its way just in the nick of time and the lamp sped past him and bounced on his bed.

Storming over to his bed, Sam grabbed the lamp, shaking it roughly as he spat, "That's enough, Molly!"

Glancing around the hushed and still room, Sam tried to figure out where the spirit was hiding. But he couldn't see her and she gave no indication as to where she was. He sat heavily on the edge of the bed, placed the lamp on his bedside table and picked up the laptop.

Setting the computer down roughly on his lap, Sam bellowed, "Get over here and talk to me!"

He glared at the auburn computer screen, waiting impatiently for the blinking cursor to move.

A long, drawn-out minute later, the keys clicked to life.

_You sound like your brother._

"We're related. What do you expect?" retorted Sam brusquely.

Molly didn't answer.

Trying to calm himself, Sam took a deep breath before inquiring quietly, "Why won't you let me help Dean?"

_You don't need him._

Bitterly stung by Molly's inconsiderate words, Sam nonetheless replied placidly, "Yes I do, Molly. And he needs me."

_Why can't you just forget about him?_

"It doesn't work like that. Dean's my brother. He's hurt. And I have to help him."

_You don't have to. You could let him die. He'd never know._

Sam closed his eyes as he attempted to retain control of his emotions. "No, Molly. I could never stand by and just let him die. I wouldn't be able to live with myself."

_I'd help you through it._

"Molly," lamented Sam, "How can you expect me to want to be your friend when you want me to let my brother die? He's all I have. And if you were really my friend, you wouldn't prevent me from helping him."

Molly didn't type a response and Sam was beginning to worry that she had decided to abandon him. Maybe as punishment, she had decided to leave, keeping Sam chained to the bed, unable to get to his injured brother. But then, without any warning, Dean's bed skidded across the floor toward him, stopping just before it bumped into Sam's knees.

Sam wasted no time in jumping onto the bed beside Dean. With his left hand, he checked his brother's pulse and was surprised at how strong it was. He touched Dean's forehead to check his temperature; it too appeared to be normal. Sam then placed his finger on Dean's closed eyelid, gently pulling it open so he could look into Dean's eye. And instead of the murky, unseeing orbs of a comatose person, Dean's eyes were bright and perceptive.

Dean slowly broke into a smile. "That was so touching, Sammy. Ya almost made me cry."

Sam bent down closer and whispered softly. "Dean? How long have you been awake?"

"Couple a minutes. Just long enough to have to sit through all that mushy chick flick crap and resist the urge to sit up and throw something heavy at you."

"Hey! It worked didn't it?"

"Yeah, but for how long?"

"Whaddya mean?" asked Sam in bewilderment.

"She's gonna separate us any second now."

The words had just left Dean's mouth when the bed jolted sideways, rapidly traversing across the room and knocking Sam brutally onto the floor when the extent of the invisible chain had been reached. As soon as the bed was back in its original position it careened to a halt, rocking Dean violently from side to side as he tried to hold on. But the bed linen shifted and, despite his best efforts, he tumbled heavily to the ground taking the sheets with him. Still not fully recovered from his previous ordeal, Dean painstakingly rose to his feet, staggering minutely as he turned to look at his brother, only to discover that he was still lying facedown on the floor.

Ignoring his own pain, Dean quickly jumped over his bed, kneeling on the floor beside his brother . "Sammy! You okay?"

But before he could get close enough to touch him, Dean was violently propelled backward, jerking to an abrupt stop as his back slamming heavily against the frame of his bed. Detained by a powerful invisible force, he could only look on powerlessly as Sam was whirled up through the air and dispassionately tossed onto his bed.

"You hurt my brother and I'll fuckin' kill you!" shouted Dean angrily, struggling to get free.

A hand clasped firmly around his neck, causing Dean to shake his head violently as he struggled to dislodge it. But the hand only tightened around his neck and instantly cut off his oxygen supply. Striving helplessly to breathe, Dean dug his heels into the floor in a desperate attempt to push the bed backwards in order to momentarily loosen the spirit's grip. But both the bed and the invisible hand held firm until Dean was in real danger of being choked to death.

His brother's distress obvious, Sam leapt to his feet and tried to dash over to help him but he was once again pulled up short by the insufficient length of the chain that still bound him securely to the bed.

"Damn it, Molly!" he roared. "Let him go!"

But the increasing blue-grey tinge of his brother's face made it obvious that Molly wasn't paying any attention to him or his pleas.

"Molly! I'm warning you! Let him go! NOW!" commanded Sam, more vehemently this time, the unspoken threat apparent in the tone of his voice.

A second later, Dean's upper body slumped forward, a hoarse gasp escaping from his lips that immediately triggered a long, raspy coughing fit. When he had regained his breath, Dean sat up slowly. He looked over at his brother with a mixture of pain, relief and thankfulness before he unsteadily got to his feet and took two short steps toward his brother, his expression changed from torment and pain to anger.

Hastily backing away from him, Sam raised his hand to signal his brother to stop.

"No Dean! Don't come any closer!" he barked sharply as he backed up until the back of his knees struck the side of the mattress.

"Why not?" commanded Dean angrily, taking another step forward.

"Because," replied Sam urgently, "You'll just get hurt again. But Molly won't touch you if you stay away from me."

"What makes you so sure about that?"

"I...she just won't, I know it. I mean, look…she hasn't done anything to you yet."

"So I guess trying to strangle me a minute ago doesn't count."

"That was…that was before. But if you stay where you are, she'll leave you alone."

"Yeah, well, fat fucking chance in Hell on that one," retorted Dean indignantly as he lifted his foot to take another step forward.

"No Dean! Don't!" pleaded Sam urgently, "Will you be reasonable for once in you life! Please!"

Dean glared angrily at his younger brother. But he didn't argue. Nor did he complete his untaken step, simply placing his foot back down on the ground. Sam just might be right; for some unknown reason Molly had released him and had yet to assault him again. Besides, he was still fatigued from their two previous encounters and he could use a bit more time to recuperate before the next round. Because it was bound to happen. The only variable was when.

Tossing his arms as if out to surrender, Dean asked, "So what am I supposed to do, Sammy? Just stand here forever and wait?"

"No Dean, you could, maybe…" responded Sam hesitantly, "…just leave."

"Leave? Without you? Are you nuts?"

"No Dean, I'm not. I'm gonna stay here with Molly."

You're gonna stay here with that bitch? All by yourself? I don't think so."

"Dean, I _want_ to stay," stated Sam firmly as he beseeched his brother urgently with his eyes. "I _want_ to get to know her better."

"Tough," answered Dean hastily before he caught on to the real meaning behind Sam's words and his irritation changed to concern. Still thinking Sam's request was crazy and, not knowing what else to say, he asked, "You just expect me to leave you here?"

"You don't really have much choice. I am still chained to the bed."

"Yeah, about that…"

"Just go, Dean," replied Sam hastily, not wanting to risk Dean's sarcasm upsetting Molly. "I'll be fine. Trust me."

"Oh, I trust you, Sammy. It's Molly I have a problem with."

"She won't hut me, Dean. I promise. And she won't hurt you either as long as you agree to leave without me."

"I don't know if I can do that, Sammy."

"You're really gonna have to trust me on this one Dean."

Huffing loudly, Dean glowered at his younger brother, not liking the fact that he was probably right. Even if he could get near Sam, there was no way for Dean to set him free. Molly would be on him in an instant and then he'd be in another fight for his life. Sam had managed to stop the last assault but how long he'd be able to do that before Molly killed him remained a mystery. One that Dean wasn't anxious to solve. Because then there'd be no one left to help Sammy out of his predicament and he'd be forever trapped in the spirit's evil clutches.

Utterly displeased, Dean snarled curtly, "Fine. I'll go. But if she touches one hair on your head, so help me God…"

"Everything'll be fine, Dean."

Dean didn't take his eyes off his brother as he backed up to the door. He stared imploringly at Sam, hoping he'd change his mind but Sam only stared back at him, wide-eyed and innocent. Reaching behind his body and grabbing the doorknob, Dean silently prayed that the door wouldn't open. But it unlatched far to easily and Dean reluctantly backed into the threshold, looking for any sign that Sam might ask him to stay. Sam's only response was to raise his eyebrows as if asking how long Dean was planning on hanging around.

"You sure about this, Sammy?"

"Good-bye Dean."

Dean backed the rest of the way out the door, watching it swing shut behind him and hearing the locks clicked firmly into place. He just stood there staring at the closed door briefly before he turned and stormed over to his car, slamming his hand viciously down on the hood of the Impala as he walked past and cursing loudly to himself.

"Damn it, Sammy! I can't believe you convinced me to leave"


	6. Chapter 6

* * *

Firmly grasping the door handle of the Impala, Dean looked over at the motel room where Sammy was being held prisoner, longing to hear anything that would give him cause to run back inside. But the only sounds he heard were the normal noises of the night: the wind rustling through the leaves, the incessant chirping of an indiscriminate number of crickets, the sporadic high-pitched twittering of a distant night bird and the underlying din of late-night traffic.

Nothing resonated from the closed-off motel room. The only evidence that anyone was occupying the room came from the dim glow of the ceiling light that shone through the fully drawn curtains. Continually glancing between the window and the door of their room, Dean was struck by its show of tranquility. The room appeared to be both peaceful and quiet; so completely deceptive of what was really going on inside. It was nothing more than a horrible façade whose sole purpose was to prevent the truth from being discovered.

A façade just like the one Molly wore.

Leading Sam to believe that she cared for him when all she really wanted was to destroy him. Tease and torment him in a variety of inconceivable ways until she'd had her fun and grown tired of him. After which, she wouldn't hesitate to kill him.

Dean knew this to be true. He'd sensed it from the very first moment she had appeared. And, if there was one thing he innately understood, it was when someone was planning to harm his younger brother. It had been that way ever since they were little and, over the years, he'd just gotten better at detecting it.

And now he had it damn-near perfected.

As much as she sought to hide it, Molly was not unlike any other spirit they had ever encountered; she was maniacal and spiteful with an added dose of sadistic tendencies who relished the torture she inflicted. She took extreme pleasure in witnessing the distress she caused. But Dean knew her plans for Sammy were only beginning to unfold. She would save her finest cruelty until the bitter end.

The sooner Dean figured out how to destroy her, the better.

There was only one problem: he didn't know exactly who – or what- she really was. Let alone how to dispose of her. All of that had to be uncovered before she had a chance to do any permanent damage to Sam. Or got tired of her own game and decided to end it by meting out something far more sinister.

At least Sam had been successful in learning her first name. But that was probably all the useful information he'd get from her. In all likelihood, she didn't even know she was dead, let alone how she died or where her body was buried. Molly wouldn't be able to tell him anything else that would help eliminate her. And even if she did, how was Sam going to relay that information back to him?

Dean was just going to have to conduct all the research on his own. Knowing her first name would make it easier to search through the town records until he found what he needed: a car accident, a drowning or any other type of tragic or suspicious death; any fatal mishap that would have left an angry, malevolent spirit behind. And once he knew the manner of death and subsequent cause of her being, Dean could destroy her without her even knowing what he had done.

Except he didn't have the patience to wait around uselessly until the record office opened. That wouldn't be for at least another seven hours anyway. Sure, he could break into the building and rummage through the place on his own, but that was certain to lead to future complications. With everything shut down tight and no Sammy there to help him, he'd have to figure out how to access the computers and tediously search through the mounds of old records all by himself, undoubtedly taking up way more time than he actually had. Sam was the computer geek, not him. It would definitely be better to wait until the office opened for the day.

And, with any luck at all, there'd be a pretty girl in the office to flirt with. One, who with a little bit of sweet talking, would be willing to do most of the research for him.

For now, he'd go do the thing he did best; explore the cemeteries for Molly's grave. There were only two big cemeteries in town along with a handful of smaller, church graveyards. Even the town's biggest cemetery wasn't anywhere near as big as some of the ones they'd had to search through in the past. And, if he was successful in finding Molly's grave before the sun rose, he would save valuable time and effort by being able to salt and burn her bones that very night. He could end the problem before it even had a chance to get out of hand.

Besides, how many 'Mollys' could possibly be buried in such a small-town?

Gazing ruefully at the sealed motel room, Dean slid slowly into the driver's seat. With a heavy sigh, he looked at his image in the rearview mirror and was slightly taken aback by the sight of dried blood caked on his face. After wiping the blood off with his t-shirt, Dean reluctantly backed the car out of its parking spot, all the while keeping most of his attention fixed on the exterior of the motel, even peering into the rearview mirror as he pulled halfheartedly onto the road, heading across town to the cemetery and leaving the motel – and Sammy – far behind him.

After three-and-a-half fretful hours of searching the cemeteries for Molly's burial plot, Dean was exhausted and about ready to give up. It was cold and damp; he was tired and sore. The injuries he had sustained in the fight with the spirit had begun to manifest themselves a few hours ago so that now even the slightest movement was painful and debilitating. His neck was tender and stiff from when the spirit had choked him and every labored breath left him feeling like an overused pincushion, which led him to believe that he had at least a couple of cracked or broken ribs.

Briefly leaning on a tombstone for support, Dean tried to recoup some of his energy but he found stopping to rest only exemplified the anguished state of his battered body. Afraid that he might not be able to continue if he stayed too long in one spot, Dean thrust himself away from the sturdy granite stone, once again staggering off to peruse the remainder of the cemetery.

A half-hour later, he had examined every gravesite in the huge cemetery; he hadn't found one single 'Molly' buried in any of the graveyards in town and he wondered whether she might actually have been from a different town and was buried somewhere further away. Or maybe Molly wasn't even her real name; it was entirely possible that it was just a nickname. Of course, there was also the possibility that she was buried in the small Presbyterian cemetery across town alongside a long-abandoned old wooden church.

But it hadn't looked like there had been any new residents interred there in quite some time. Dean's first drive-by of that cemetery had revealed the headstones to be old and faded, definitely turn-of-the-century shape and style. And seeing as Molly was savvy enough to know her way around a computer, Dean doubted that she had been dead for more than a handful of years.

Nonetheless, Dean hobbled his way back to his car and eased himself into the driver's seat so he could go check the graveyard. Leaning back in the Impala's molded leather seat, he was overcome with an instant sense of relief as the familiar cushions supported and soothed his battle-weary body, even closing his eyes and resting for a few minutes before bothering to grab the first aid kit from behind the passenger seat. Rooting through the old tin box, it only took him a few seconds to find the oversized roll of elastic body wrap. Sitting forward in the seat, Dean gathered his t-shirt up under his arms and wrapped the bandage around his beleaguered torso, making sure to pull it tight enough so as to protect his severely injured ribcage. The strenuous effort wore him out and as soon as he had finished swathing his torso, he fell back against the seat before throwing the kit haphazardly into the back seat, knowing there was little more he could do for his physical discomfort.

He was just going to have to live with the rest of his injuries.

With dawn quickly approaching, Dean had little option but to head back to the ancient cemetery and look for Molly's grave. He laboriously put the Impala into gear and drove across town, trying to avoid as many potholes as possible. But the road was so rough and unkempt that he couldn't avoid each and every depression and sporadic jolting of the Impala added further insult to his weary body and he was grateful when the dilapidated temple of the old church finally came into view.

Parking the car as close to the blocked-off entranceway as he could, Dean anchored both hands on the opposite sides of the door and slowly lifted himself out of the car as he scoured the immediate area for unwanted intruders. But the night was quiet, well past the time that any bored youths would be out looking for trouble. So he ventured into the forgotten burial ground, shining his flashlight on the faded headstones, desperate to find Molly's grave.

But once again the grave he was seeking eluded him; of the tombstones where the etchings were still legible, none listed the spirit's name. Which left him with no alternative but to have to delve into the town's archives.

The sun was just rising over the horizon as Dean climbed back into his car and headed toward City Hall. He was planning to park somewhere close by and inconspicuous where he would be able to get a few hours of welcome and much-needed shut-eye before the office opened for the day.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Watching the door swing shut behind his brother, Sam was immediately filled with a strange mixture of fear and relief. Although glad that Molly had let Dean leave the room unharmed, Sam wasn't exactly confident that his brother was really out of danger. After all, Molly had gone after him before when he was outside and not posed a threat to her. But Dean had more or less left voluntarily this time around and Sam was pretty sure that Molly would chose to stay in the motel room with him. As much as she had the capability to accomplish some rather extraordinary feats, it was doubtful that she could be in two places at once. Right now she seemed to have more interest in appeasing and communicating with him than in hurting his brother – as long as he stayed out of her way. So, with any luck, if Dean wasn't around to antagonize her, she might just forget all about him.

Lost in his own thoughts, Sam barely noticed the laptop on the bed beside him click to life again. It was the incessant tapping of the keys that made him look over at the eerie golden-brown screen and read what the spirit had already written.

_Talk to me._

_Sam?_

_I told you to talk to me!_

_SAM!_

_TALK TO ME!_

_NOWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW… _

Sam read the threatening and aggressive words. But he really didn't have anything he wanted to say to her, so he just stared apathetically at the screen as Molly continued typing the incessant 'W's' to demonstrate her displeasure. Finally, after obtaining no response from Sam, she stopped and changed tactics.

_Say something Sam._

_Please._

After taking a rather long moment to read and reread everything that Molly had written on the computer screen, Sam replied unenthusiastically, "What do you want me to say, Molly?"

_Anything. Just talk to me._

"About what? How you hurt Dean? And tried to kill him? Twice."

_No. I don't want to talk about your brother._

"Okay" answered Sam with a hint of annoyance evident in his voice. "Why don't we talk about why I'm still chained to the bed?"

_So you don't chase after your brother._

"What makes you think I'd do that?"

_I just know you would. And I want you to stay here. With me._

"Yeah, well, tying someone up so they can't leave isn't really conducive to forming a lasting friendship."

_But it's the only way I can make you stay with me. If I unchained you and you tried to leave, I'd have to hurt you just like I did to your brother. I don't want to do that._

"If you just release me, I promise I'll stay."

There was a short pause before Molly responded.

_Not now. Maybe later._

Sam stared at the computer screen in frustration. "Well then, maybe later, I'll feel like talking to you."

Turning away, he stared at the wall directly behind the night table. Looking there, he couldn't see the laptop nor the dove Molly had drawn on the wall above his headboard. Sam even resisted shifting his gaze when he felt the spirit get off the bed; even though he knew he couldn't see her to know where she was headed, it was still human nature to look. He just didn't want her to think he was even the slightest bit interested in what she was doing.

A second later her ice-cold fingers seized his chin, her fingernails pressing firmly against his skin as she attempted to force him to turn his head. But Sam set his neck determinedly, not willing to let her manipulate him so easily. She gripped his jaw harder, her fingernails piercing through his skin, and yanked violently on his neck. This time she managed to make him turn his head and look straight ahead. Peering into the nothingness in front of him through dark and callous eyes, Sam lifted his chin upwards in a vain effort to dislodge her fingers. But Molly wasn't at all affected by his feeble attempt of resistance.

Nevertheless, Sam took a deep breath to strengthen his resolve and was relieved when Molly finally let go. But his relief was short-lived as he was suddenly slapped heavily across the face. Caught completely off-guard, his head twisted sideways, a trickle of blood escaping from the corner of his mouth. Sam swiped the blood away with the back of his free hand, still refusing to acquiesce to the spirit and speak to her. Another angry blow came from the opposite direction, smacking Sam smartly on the opposite cheek. But Sam had been better prepared for this second assault and his head barely moved when it absorbed the brutal slap.

Obviously infuriated by Sam's lack of response, Molly grabbed the hair on the back of his head and threw his head back so far that it was extremely difficult for him to breathe. But Sam did little to convey his discomfort, knowing full-well that she could only hold him in this position for a few minutes before he passed out from lack of oxygen.

And he was actually looking forward to when that would happen.


	7. Chapter 7

Sam awoke to the sensation of a damp cloth being wiped gently across his brow; a cool and soothing feeling that, for a brief moment, whisked him back in college. Back to the time when Jessica's ex-boyfriend had come up behind him, tapped him roughly on the shoulder and clocked him across the side of his face just as he was turning around. When he woke up, Jess had been swabbing his forehead precisely as was occurring now. It was that incident that made Sam realize that the supernatural creatures Dad had taught him to always be on the lookout for weren't the only things he needed to be wary of and resulted in him once again taken up a daily regiment of physical and mental training.

But, as pleasantly reminiscent of college life as the tender stroking was, Sam quickly remembered where he was. And it wasn't back at college with Jess. He was trapped in a motel room with an emotionally unbalanced spirit. One whose wrath he had invoked with his defiance to speak to her. After which, she had made him pay for his continued insolence. But sometime after he had lost consciousness she had obviously switched gears. And now she seemed to want to console him.

It was like playing with an incorrectly wired light switch. One minute she was striving to be nice to him and the next minute she aimed to kill him. She sought out his affection, but if it wasn't as forthcoming as she desired, she completely lost it. And, being a spirit from another realm, Sam had no way to defend himself against her. The only way not to induce her fury was to do exactly what she wanted. Molly was in complete control and was making sure both of them knew it.

The only saving grace was that she had let Dean leave. Now, all Sam had to do was placate her long enough for Dean figure out who and what she really was.

His voice hoarse and unfamiliar even to himself, Sam croaked, "You can stop now, Molly. I'm awake."

The rubbing ceased and Sam opened his eyes. "You still feel like talking?" he asked as he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

The laptop immediately clicked to life; Molly must have been waiting for him to wake up, knowing he'd likely be in a more amiable mood.

_Why were you mean to me?_

Sam furrowed his brow. "Why was _I _mean to _you?_ I think you've got it backwards, Molly."

_No I don't. You made me mad because you were mean! That's why I hurt you. But you started it!_

"Okay Molly, I'm sorry," quipped Sam hastily, afraid she was on the verge of getting angry again. "It's just that I think you went a little overboard."

_No matter what I did, you still refused to talk to me._

"I know and I'm sorry about that too. And it was wrong of me to do that. But I promise I'll talk to you now."

_I knew you would._

Sam hated admitting defeat. Not quite a much as Dean did, but he still didn't like it very much. Although he truly did believe that discretion was the better part of valor. At least, that's what he always reminded himself at difficult times like this.

"Why do you want me to stay here with you?"

_Because I like you._

"Okayyyy, but...what made you pick me?"

_I think you're pretty._

"Pretty?" scoffed Sam lightly. "Thanks a lot, Molly." Good thing Dean wasn't around to hear that; he'd never let Sam live it down.

_It was supposed to be a compliment._

"I know it was. It's just that, most guys don't generally like to hear themselves described as being pretty."

_Well, you are._

Sam smirked, "Thanks, Molly."

_Sam...Do you think I'm pretty?_

Yet another bad sign: she didn't know that he couldn't see her. That could only lead to further complications up the road

"Of course I think you're pretty."

_Really?_

"Sure."

There was a short pause before Molly wrote:

_Then, what color are my eyes?_

"Blue," guessed Sam, silently praying he was right.

_No. They're green._

"Sorry, Molly. I'm, uh, I'm…color-blind," apologized Sam, giving the best excuse he could come up with.

_That's okay. It's not your fault. I forgive you._

"I appreciate that, Molly," Sam replied gratefully before asking somewhat hesitantly, "What do you want from me?"

_I'm lonely. I want a friend._

"That's really…nice, Molly. I'd be honored to be your friend."

She inserted a happy face icon onto the screen.

"Where are you from Molly?"

_Michigan_

"Did you…I mean, have you lived there all your life?"

_No. I moved away when I was ten._

"Well, how old are you now?"

_Twenty-two_

Sam kept talking to Mooly, learning little things about her; she was an only child, her mother had died when she was eighteen and her father had married a woman she didn't particularly care for. Her last boyfriend had left her abruptly without giving any sort of warning or explanation and she still didn't know what had happened between them or where he had gone. His sudden departure made her very sad and angry and she was just beginning to get over him when Sam came along.

Their ostensibly idle chit-chat continued for a long time while Sam discretely tried to discover as much as he could about her, including when and where she had lived and the possible events that could have led to her death, thus turning her into an invisible spirit. But after two and a half hours, he was mentally exhausted and he gave up. Like most spirits, Molly was very selective about what she revealed and he hadn't learned much that would be of any help. He still didn't know her full name, exactly where in Michigan she had been born, where she had moved to or anything about the circumstances surrounding her death.

"I don't know about you, Molly, but I'm really tired," declared Sam with a yawn. "Would you mind if I went to sleep for a while?"

_Not if you'll let me sleep with you._

Hoping her seemingly humble request didn't actually contain another well-known meaning, Sam reluctantly agreed.

It wasn't like he had much of a choice anyway.

Lying down and rolling onto his side, Sam closed his eyes and waited for Molly to head over to the far side of the bed and, as expected, a brief moment later he felt the mattress on the other side of the bed sink slightly under her assumed weight and he inadvertently found himself holding his breath, dreading where she might eventually settle. Not surprisingly, she eased across the bed and sidled up to him until her back rested tight against his chest, her buttocks pressed lightly into his groin.

Sam lay as still as possible, silently praying that she wasn't going to expect anything more from him. But after a few seconds, her ice-cold hand encircled his right wrist below the snugly fitted manacle, tenderly lifting his arm and pulling it overtop of her invisible body, instantly increasing Sam's already out-of-control trepidation But Molly didn't seem to notice either the tension in his body or his extremely elevated heartbeat as she intertwined her fingers with his and drew their now entwined hands up underneath her frosty chin.

It took Sam a rather long time to calm himself down enough to be able to fall asleep, and even then it was more from shear exhaustion than from anything else. And as soon as he collapsed into a fitful sleep, he dreamt about being stranded on a gigantic iceberg, alone and adrift in an endless ice-covered sea with no viable means of escape. Even if he had been able to find a way off the meandering iceberg, there was simply nowhere for him to go except into the frozen ocean. The psychologically disturbing nightmare lingered on and on with a violent snowstorm finally overtaking the hapless floating glacier, slowly shrouding it from view. Sam agonizingly watched himself disappear into the darkness, understanding, even in his sleep, that this awful plight was going to lead directly to his death.

Sam was rudely awakened by a loud thumping on the motel door. Molly was no longer lying up against him; in fact, he couldn't even feel her weight on the bed. Pondering where she may have gone, Sam suddenly heard his brother's voice resonate through the closed door, immediately boosting his moral with the hope that Dean had somehow succeeded in eliminating the deranged spirit.

"Sam! Sammy! You okay in there?"

"Dean? Did you get rid of…" Sitting up, Sam realized that he was still chained to the bed which could only mean that Molly still existed. And therefore, still posed a danger to his newly-arrived brother. He immediately revised his unfinished question, "What are you doing here, Dean?"

"What kinda stupid question is that?" bellowed Dean angrily, shaking the locked door violently. "Tell Molly to open the door."

"I don't think that's a very good idea, Dean," retorted Sam quickly, hoping his brother's presence hadn't already annoyed the hidden spirit. "I think it might be better if you just stayed outside."

"The hell I will. She needs to let me come in. Besides, I brought ya some food so you don't starve to death."

"Maybe you should just leave it by the door and go, Dean. Molly can get it for me after you leave."

"That is so not going to happen, Sammy," barked Dean, totally exasperated now. "I'm not goin' anywhere until I know you're all right."

"I'm fine, Dean. You just gonna have to believe me."

"Not good enough, Sammy. I wanna see you with my own two eyes."

"Dean," pleaded Sam, "Will you promise that, if Molly does let you in, you'll just set the food on the table and not try to get any closer to me?"

"Whatever it takes, Sammy. Just as long as I get to see for myself that she hasn't done anything to hurt you."

"Then you promise you'll go?"

There was silence from outside the motel room.

"_Deeean?_" Sam beseeched strongly.

"Okay, okay. I'll go. But only _after_ I see you. And I wanna talk to you for a couple of minutes too."

Sam glanced nervously around the motel room. "Molly? Will you do this for me? Please?"

After a few tense minutes, the locks on the door unbolted and the door gradually swung open. As soon as it had opened far enough for him to fit through, Dean slithered inside.

"Sammy?"

"Stay close to the door Dean and Molly won't hurt you."

"I just wanna give you the food," stated Dean, holding his hand with the fast-food bag out to the side and taking another tentative step into the room.

"No Dean! Don't come any closer!" Sam pleaded urgently. "Just put the bag on the table. Molly will get it for me.!"

"She still got you chained to the bed?" inquired Dean angrily.

Sam heaved his arm forward until it was stopped by the invisible chain. "That answer your question?"

Okay, Smart-guy. What else has she done to you while I've been gone?"

"Nothin' Man. We've just been sitting here talking."

"For eleven and a half hours?" retorted Dean incredulously.

"No, Dean. We talked for a couple of hours. Then we both went to sleep."

"In the same bed?"

Sam glared crossly at his brother, almost as if the question had invaded his privacy.

"That's just so wrong on so many levels, Sammy."

"Nothing happened," replied Sam tersely. "We just lay down and fell asleep. That's all."

"Whatever turns your crank, Sammy. But somethin' else musta happened. Ya got lipstick stuck on the corner of your mouth."

Sam wiped the back of his hand across his lips, looking at the red smear that came away with it. "That's not lipstick, Dean. It's dried blood"

"That's so not helping, Sam," stated Dean emphatically. "What did she do to you?"

"Nothing. It was just a small misunderstanding."

"A small misunderstanding? So help me God, Sammy…"

"Dean, will you please just settle down. You promised you'd leave once you saw that I was okay."

"Yeah, well, I'm still not convinced about that."

"Everything's fine, Dean. And I'd really like it if we could keep it that way. For everybody."

Dean huffed, staring irately at his younger brother. But, deep down inside, he knew Sam was right; there was nothing to stop Molly from exploding at any minute and injuring both of them. It would be much more prudent to just back off a bit. So, after taking a deep breath to gain control of his spiraling emotions, Dean patted the sides of his jacket, seemingly surprised when his hand ran across something that crinkled in the side pocket.

Inserting his hand into the pocket and pulling out a disheveled envelope, Dean quizzically looked it over before announcing almost absently, "Oh yeah, I almost forgot about this. I ran into an old teacher of yours, Mr. Postiche, the other day. He wanted to know how you were doing and asked me to give you this letter."

"Mr. Postiche?" reiterated Sam, slightly confused.

"Yeah. Your old teacher from Sanford. Don't tell me you've forgotten about him already? He's a real funny guy. Had me laughing every time I met him."

"Yeah…sure. Mr. Postiche. How could I forget him" replied Sam hesitantly, his gaze fixed on his brother, not fully comprehending this new ploy.

Dean reached out with the letter to hand it to him.

"Just throw it on the bed, Dean."

"Uh uh, Sammy," disputed Dean firmly. "I promised that I'd hand-deliver the damn thing straight to you. And I have every intension of keepin' my word."

"Molly might not like it, Dean. She'll probably get upset if you try to come any closer."

"Don't care, Sammy. I promised I'd give it to you and that's exactly what I intend to do. All I have to do is to get close enough to pass you the letter. Then I'll leave. I promise. I just wanna be sure you actually get the letter."

Without waiting to gauge Molly's reaction, Dean inched a little closer. Thankfully, nothing untoward transpired and he edged forward a little bit more. Proffering his arm as he ventured further into the room, Dean looked fervently at his brother. Sam cautiously stood up and moved to close the gap between them until they were only about six feet apart; it was the closest Molly had ever let them get without interfering. After taking two more small steps, Dean decided not to push his luck any further and stopped, waiting instead for Sam to move closer to him.

Pulling tightly on the already taut manacle, Sam's extended his tethered arm as far as it could go before spinning sideways and stretching his other arm out toward his brother, who also held out his arm as far as he could without taking another step forward. But the two Winchesters remained too far apart for the letter to exchange hands; the distance between their outstretched hands still approximately two feet. Realizing that he had no other choice but to get a bit closer, Dean hesitantly took another pace toward Sam and by bending his upper body over and fully extending his arm, he was finally able to slip the letter between Sam's outstretched fingers.

With the envelope transferred, Dean moved backward holding his arms out to his sides in an effort to show Molly that he wasn't planning on reneging on his promise. So far everything had gone exactly as planned and he wasn't anxious for Molly to decide to toss him around now. He'd come out on the losing end of both his previous tussles with the spirit and he didn't see any reason to tempt fate any further than he already had. He had accomplished what he's set out to do and Sam had at least been able to pacify Molly to the point that she wasn't in danger of harming him - at least for now. There was little point in overstaying his tenuous welcome and risk placing them both in jeopardy. So as much as he regretted doing it, Dean slowly opened the motel room door and backed outside.

After watching his brother depart, Sam wandered back to the bed, his tethered arm and shoulder aching from the strain they had endured while they carried out the letter exchange. Heavily sitting on the bed, Sam ripped open the envelope, anxious to discover what Dean's strategy was in insisting that he pass him this unassuming note. He had to know that Molly could read and this type of communication would prove to be nothing less than a useless waste of time.

In fact, the unseen spirit had probably already positioned herself right behind him so she could read the letter as soon as he opened it up.

Wondering if there might actually be something other than a written note inside - like maybe some kind of herb or charm that he could use to eradicate Molly - Sam carefully traced his index finger across the outside of the envelope. But it contained nothing more than paper. Withdrawing and unfolding the single piece of paper that had been inserted inside, he immediately recognized his brother's handwriting - hastily written big, block letters, carefully spaced and perfectly legible. Sam smirked a bit as he perused the carefully scripted prose, noticing that the words had pretty much been written verbatim, once again conveying Dean's lack of finesse in using the ancient language.

_SAM;_

_Nonnisi narro quisquam._

_Iustus eum lego silentium et non tribuo ullus testimonium ut quas ea inquit. Est forsit solus tutus via defero ut illa non agnosco. Ego lego diversus phasmatis pro quattuor hora et illic es tantum duos_ _spiritus pius exsisto non promptus:_

_uno malum diabolus aut uno poltergeist…_


	8. Chapter 8

Sam quickly perused the letter, interpreting it effortlessly as he read…

_DON'T SAY ANYTHING._

_JUST READ CAREFULLY AND DON'T GIVE ANY INDICATION TO REVEAL WHAT I'M TELLING YOU. THIS IS PROBABLY THE ONLY SAFE WAY FOR US TO COMMUNICATE. I RESEARCHED DIFFERENT TYPES OF SPIRITS AND THERE ARE ONLY TWO ENTITIES THAT ARE OR CAN REMAIN INVISIBLE:_

_A DEMON OR A POLTERGEIST._

_I'M BETTING OUR NEW FRIEND IS A POLTERGEIST. DEMONS ARE USUALLY MUCH TOO VAIN TO REMAIN INVISIBLE FOR LONG. AND ACCORDING TO POLTERGEIST LURE, THEY ARE MOST OFTEN ATTRACTED TO YOUNG PEOPLE WITH PSYCHIC ABILITIES – USUALLY TEENAGE GIRLS…_

_WHICH MIGHT ACTUALLY EXPLAIN WHY SHE LATCHED ONTO YOU._

_POLTERGEISTS ARE USUALLY CREATED FROM THE RECENTLY DEAD SOULS OF PEOPLE WHO WERE AWARE THAT THEY WERE GOING TO DIE – LIKE A VERY OLD PERSON OR SOMEONE WITH CANCER – BUT INSTEAD OF DYING THE WAY THEY EXPECTED, THEY DIE IN SOME OTHER WAY – LIKE IN A CAR ACCIDENT OR GETTING SHOT. BUT THERE'S NOTHING IN THE TOWN RECORDS TO VERIFY ANYTHING LIKE THAT. NOT THAT IT DIDN'T HAPPEN –THERE JUST ISN'T ANY MENTION OF ANYTHING LIKE THAT IN THE TOWN OBITUARIES._

_I SPENT THE WHOLE NIGHT SEARCHING THE CEMETERIES AND THERE AREN'T ANY GRAVES WITH YOUR GIRLFRIEND'S NAME ON THEM EITHER. SO THAT TURNED OUT TO BE ANOTHER DEADEND. BUT THEN THIS MORNING A REALLY CUTE GIRL AT CITY HALL INFORMED ME THAT IT COULD BE A NICKNAME FOR MARY_

_TOTALLY MADE MY DAY._

_RIGHT NOW I NEED YOU TO FIND OUT WHAT HER REAL NAME IS. I'M GOING BACK TO CITY HALL TO DELVE A BIT DEEPER INTO THEIR RECORDS. I'M ALSO GOING TO TALK TO BOBBY AND SEE WHAT HE KNOWS ABOUT POLTERGEISTS._

_BUT IF NONE OF US COMES UP WITH ANYTHING USEFULL I'M GOING TO START BURNING EVERY GOD-DAMN BONE IN THIS TOWN THAT'S BURIED UNDER THE NAME MARY!!_

_EXPECT TO SEE ME BACK IN A FEW HOURS._

_IN THE MEANTIME DEAL WITH YOUR GIRLFRIEND._

Sam expressionlessly refolded the piece of paper and was in the process of inserting it back into the envelope when the laptop clicked to life. Glancing nonchalantly at the screen he was only somewhat taken aback by the more than apparent angry tone of Molly's message.

_**TELL ME WHAT THE LETTER SAYS!!**_

"This letter?" asked Sam, sounding surprised as he removed it from the envelope and reopened it.

_YES. THAT LETTER._

"It doesn't really say anything important, Molly. Just an old college teacher of mine wantin' to know what I've been doing since I left school." Hoping to steer the conversation in another direction, Sam added hesitantly, "And to tell me how sorry he was when he heard that Jess had died."

_Jess? Who's Jess?_

The painful memory still fresh in his mind, Sam took a deep breath before answering. "Jess was my girlfriend. Up until she died."

_When did she die?_

"A couple of years ago."

_How?_

Sam looked sullenly at the written word, rather upset at the spirit's audacity in asking, even though that had been his intention when he first mentioned it. Nonetheless, he found recalling the events of that horrible night revived every ounce of pain and anger he had kept buried deep inside for so long. And, although the truth was agonizing enough, willfully lying about it made it seem that much worse.

"Cancer," he choked, silently praying that he didn't sound near as deceitful as he felt. "She was only 21."

There was silence for a moment before Molly typed again.

_Do you still miss her?_

"What kind of a question is that, Molly?" replied Sam irrately. "Of course I still miss her! I loved her. And I was going to ask her to marry me."

Sam's eyes immediately widened; he couldn't believe he had openly divulged such private information. And to a deranged spirit no less. He shut his eyes tightly and sighed, wishing he could take it all back and start again. But a light touch on his shoulder made him open his eyes again and he watched the computer screen as Molly softly typed.

_Do you wish you had died with her?_

Again Sam sighed. "I wish I had died instead of her."

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Dean leaned against the closed door, his back and arms resting on the cold steel. He listened carefully, straining to hear what was transpiring inside the motel room. But other than the muffled sound of Sam's quiet voice, Dean couldn't make anything else out. At least Molly hadn't erupted into a rage when he had produced the letter and it appeared that Sam was going to be able to appease whatever problem she might have with it. Still, he continued eavesdropping just in case there was going to be a delayed reaction from the spirit. But everything remained quiet. With any luck Sam would placate her enough to be able to learn something useful.

Realizing that his sustained presence would eventually annoy the spirit, Dean reluctantly pushed himself away from the door. Still, he had trouble convincing himself to leave. It was difficult enough for him to leave his little brother alone with Molly but, with what he had discovered this morning, it was now next to impossible.

His early-morning research had revealed some disturbing facts. Not only where poltergeists capricious and unpredictable, they also had a tendency to grow more violent as time wore on. After they attached themselves to someone, they seldom let go, choosing to stay fixated on that person for the as long as their interest was peaked. Unlike ghosts, poltergeists weren't confined to one place, reliving a pivotal moment in their lives or deaths. Unencumbered by ethereal bodies, these types of evil spirits could go anywhere and everywhere they pleased, following their human companions wherever they went, alternately soothing and terrorizing them until the thrill was gone. After which, to satisfy their insatiable cruel impulses, the easily bored poltergeists typically slaughtered their victims.

In as malevolent a way as the spirits could possibly conceive.

Everything in Dean's makeup warned him against abandoning his brother; not even for a couple of hours. But it simply wasn't advantageous for him to remain here either. Molly undoubtedly had an excellent sense of hearing and would be able to detect anything he said or did. There was nothing he could do to help Sam. Nor was he able to set his brother free.

At least, not until he fully understood his adversary.

And as he was entirely aware, Molly could turn violent on a moment's notice. She wouldn't hesitate to slam him around like a rag doll until he was even more severely injured. Not only was Dean reluctant to go another round with the sadistic spirit, there was a very real possibility that she would resort to something far worse.

She could decide to take her displeasure at him out on Sam.

And Dean just wasn't willing to risk that.

So, with a heavy heart, he moved away from the door, slowing wandering over to the Impala. He resisted looking back, unconsciously reasoning that out of sight would also mean out of mind. But as he lowered himself into the driver's seat, he couldn't stop himself any longer and he glanced back at the motel. As before, there was nothing ominous about what met his gaze; just a dingy white door nestled into a drab gray building with an oversized window closed off by shoddy opaque curtains that effectively obliterated everything that lay inside.

After staring persistently at the room he supposedly shared with his brother, Dean's uncertainty grew. He found himself less willing to leave with each passing second and he knew that if he stayed too long, he'd end up doing something he regretted. He had to leave; there were no two ways about it. Besides, there was still a lot of research that needed to be done.

And he was the only one left to do it.

Begrudgingly, Dean put the car into reverse and backed out of the parking spot. Turning hesitantly onto the road, he removed his cellphone from his jacket pocket and scrolled down until he found Bobby's number.


	9. Chapter 9

"What the hell took ya so long ta call me, ya idjit?" Bobby barked into the phone after listening to what Dean had to tell him.

"I've been a little busy," retorted Dean irritably. "Can ya help us, or not?"

"Don't talk to me like that, Boy," Bobby snapped back before attempting to calm himself down a bit, realizing that the Winchester brothers could really use his assistance. "So what makes you think it's a poltergeist?"

"It just fits the lure, Bobby."

"But didn't they debunk the poltergeist myth," answered Bobby, still slightly perplexed. "I know I sure as hell never come across one before."

"Yeah, there's a lot written about that too, Bobby. But it's just more typical garbage of scientists trying to explain away everything they don't understand. And if they can't come up with a logical explanation for something, they're just as happy to write it off as believe it actually exists. Like with poltergeists, they just turn around and blame the victim. Say it's their own psychic powers that are responsible for everything that happens. But I really doubt Sam's responsible for any of this crap."

"You absolutely sure about that, Dean?"

"Com'on Bobby! It's Sam we're talkin' about here! Not some punk kid off the street who doesn't know anything about the supernatural!."

"I realize that, Dean, but ya told me yourself he doesn't have complete control over his powers. And he doesn't even know exactly what he's capable o' doin'.."

For chrissake Bobby, she's got him chained to a bed! What possible reason could he have for doin' that to himself?"

"No, I guess yur right. I just never heard of poltergeists actually being real before, Dean. And I've been at this a long time."

"I know that, Bobby. But just because you haven't encountered one before, doesn't mean that poltergeists are any less real than vampires," countered Dean sharply, knowing that Bobby would pick up on the fact that, up until a few years ago, none of them believed in those creatures either.

"Okay, okay," conceded Bobby. "I get your point. Let me make some calls. See what I can find out. I'll get back to you as quick as I can."

"Thanks Bobby."

"And Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Be careful, huh."

"I will, Bobby. No way I'm gonna fool around with Sam's life."

Dean flipped the cell phone shut just as he turned onto the street where City Hall was located. After shoving the phone into his pocket, he pulled the car up to the curb in front of the old stone building and parked, quickly exiting the vehicle and bounding up the wide concrete stairs that led to the entrance. Swinging the heavy door open, Dean briskly walked inside and headed toward the huge reception counter, breaking into his biggest, most charming grin as soon as he spotted the young woman sitting behind the desk.

"Hailey," he said with a casual hint of familiarity, resting both arms on top of the desk's raised platform. "It's so nice to see you're still here. How 'bout you and I go out for lunch now?"

"It's 2:30 in the afternoon," smiled the pretty twenty-something receptionist, barely concealing her delight in seeing the man in front of her again.

"Better late than never I always say."

"Thanks. But I already ate."

"How 'bout just a cup of coffee then?" persisted Dean playfully.

"Somehow, I don't think my boyfriend would approve."

"Then don't tell him."

Hailey lowered her eyes, still smiling. "Are you here for a reason, Mr. Mosley? Or did you just come back to harass me?"

"Harass you?" asked Dean, feigning indignation, "Hailey…I'm hurt that you would even suggest that."

"Nevertheless," grinned Hailey shyly as she placed a pen and an open book on the ledge, "If you're going back down to the Records Department, you'll have to sign in again."

"Oh Hailey, you don't know how tingly it makes me inside every time you take charge and tell me what to do," winked Dean mischievously, picking up the pen and signing the log. As he turned away from the desk, he called back over his shoulder, "See ya in a couple of hours, Hailey. Meanwhile, you figure out what time you want me to pick you up for lunch tomorrow."

Shaking her head slightly, the receptionist rolled her eyes in amusement as she watched Dean walk across the lobby and over to the elevator. As he got into the elevator, the doors slowly began to close and Dean turned around just in time to flash Hailey another one of his patented grins.

The elevator doors swung open into an illuminated, windowless hallway; a sign on the opposite wall with directional arrows indicated that the Records and Storage Office was to the left and the Operations Management Office was to the right. Having been there earlier that day Dean turned left without bothering to read the sign, sauntering confidently into the crammed, dimly-lit room, which was quite the contrast to the bright spacious reception area one floor above.

Quickly scanning the room, it didn't take him long to discover what he had hoped to find. At the very back of the room, almost completely obscured from view, sat another pretty young woman hunched over a brightly lit microfiche reader. She was completely engrossed in the images of old newspaper pages that flashed quickly across the screen, pausing every so often to examine an article before either continuing her perusal or writing something down on a piece of paper she had in front of her.

Dean quietly walked up behind her, placing one hand on the back of her chair and laying his other hand flat on the desk beside her.

"Find anything worthwhile, Ellen?"

Looking over her shoulder at him, the young woman smiled back. "There's a few articles here that you might want to take a closer look at, but there really isn't that much that fits what you're looking for. Maybe fifteen or twenty items at the most. I've left all the pertinent fiche cards out and written down the corresponding numbers on this piece of paper for you."

Pulling a small spray of flowers out of his jacket, Dean smiled, "Thanks Ellen. I really appreciate everything you've done for me."

"Oh, it wasn't a problem at all," she beamed back, quickly scoping the flowers up and smelling them. "They're very pretty but you didn't really need to buy them for me."

"Sure I did," insisted Dean, "I couldn't have done all this without your help." He was just thankful that he hadn't had to do the tedious search through the old records all on his own.

"I've already gone all the way back to the year 2000. How much further did you want to look back?"

"I don't know," answered Dean with a lopsided grin and a shrug. "Maybe a couple o' more years. _If_ it's not too much to ask."

"No, of course not," the enchanted girl replied, laying her flowers back down on the desk. She then picked up the small pile of microfiche and set them down on the opposite side of the desk, between herself and a second microfiche reader. "You can look at the ones I've already pulled out here," she added as she reached over and turned on the other machine.

"Okey-dokey," agreed Dean amicably as he took the seat beside her, grateful that the tiny bouquet of flowers he had picked up from a roadside vendor had been more than worth the outrageous amount of money he had paid for them.

"You need any help learning how to use that machine?" queried Ellen hopefully.

"No thanks, Ellen," Dean grinned. "Believe it or not, I've actually had to use these machines a few times in the past."

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Sam was exhausted; he had spent the last hour trying to coerce information out of a highly uncooperative spirit. But no matter what tactic he used, Molly remained as elusive as ever, effectively sidestepping his questions or responding with innuendoes, half-answers or, at times, no answers at all. His hard-fought, concentrated efforts had amounted to a big, fat zero in useful information gleaned.

Molly refused to address the issue of her name, changing the topic every time Sam tried to breach it. He had started off by telling her how much he liked her name and how pretty it was; then asking her if it was a short-form for another name – just like Sam was short for Samuel. He had told her how he liked being called Sam so much more than his actual given name but that he really hated being called Sammy, not bothering to mention that that was what Dean always called him. Her only response had been that she would remember to always call him Sam but she hadn't offered anything more about her own name.

He had tried asking about her parents, what they did for a living and various ploys like that, hoping to get a better understanding on who they were or where they lived. He finally resorted to lying by saying he had relatives in Michigan in order to coax her to tell him something about them, even suggesting that, quite possibly, his relatives might know her family if she'd be willing to tell him who they were. Molly had simply not replied to that line of questioning, instead steering the conversation away from them and back to Jess.

Sam had been devastated when he lied about Jess, and he didn't want to have to make up any more untruths about her than he already had. But after he told Molly that he would rather have died instead of Jessica, she had picked right up on that, enquiring if he would die for her too. Sam had come back with the safest answer he could come up with – that he would be willing to die in place of almost anyone. But Molly hadn't let it go at that, pressing him to tell her that he would indeed sacrifice his own life to save hers, or, if she died, that he would willingly to follow suit.

"Molly, is there something you're not telling me?" he questioned uneasily after reading the bizarrely typed message.

_What do you mean?_

"For some reason you seem to be so focused on death. Is there anything that I should know about?"

_Like what?_

"I don't know, Molly. You tell me. Are you sick?"

_Sick?...What do you mean by 'sick'?_

"You know," insisted Sam cautiously, "You don't have a fatal disease or anything like that, do you?"

_No Silly. I'm perfectly healthy. Why would you ask that?_

"You keep talking about death, Molly. You make it sound so imminent. And, unless there's a reason, death isn't something you usually talk about with someone you just met."

_Why not?_

"I don't know," sighed Sam in exasperation. "It's just seems a bit morbid, I guess."

_But everybody dies._

"That's true. But people don't often like to discuss it. Not unless they know they're going to die." Trying to open up another avenue for consideration, Sam added, "Or know someone else who is."

_The only person I know who died is my mother. And she died in a car accident._

Sam resisted the urge to tell her his mother had died too; it was just not something he felt like sharing, nor lying about. Besides, the whole point of this exercise was to get some information out of her, not relate his own life story to a secretive, prying spirit. And so far, he hadn't learned anything useful from her.

Abruptly changing the subject, Sam solicited quietly, "You told me you had a boyfriend, Molly. What was he like?"

_At first he was nice. He told me he loved me._

"Did you love him?"

_He left me._

"I know, you told me before and I'm sorry. You must have been really hurt. Do you ever try to find him and ask him why?"

_I don't want to talk about him._

"But maybe I could find him for you. Ask him why he left. It might help you get over him."

_NO!_

"I'm only trying to help, Molly. I'm sure you'd feel better if you knew why he really left."

_**I TOLD YOU I DIDN'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT HIM!!**_

Sam covertly rolled his eyes at the laptop, knowing he had overstepped his boundaries. He had pushed Molly too far and she was mad now. He should have dropped the subject when she first opposed it; now he would have no choice but to deal with her wrath. And try to calm her down before she did something spiteful. He had just wanted to get her to open up, tell him her former boyfriend's name so that he could pass it on to Dean so that he might have a solid lead to go on, but, even as he persisted questioning her, he had realized he'd probably gone too far.

But before he could apologize or otherwise attempt to soothe the irritated spirit, his laptop was hurled through the air, plunging upside down onto the unkempt mess of Dean's bed. Immediately afterwards, Sam was tossed backwards onto the bed, landing brutally on his back. His arms and legs were yanked roughly out to his sides so that he lay sprawled-out across the mattress as a heavy manacle clamped tightly around his remaining free wrist at the exact same time as a pair of heavy leg-irons snapped shut over his ankles.

Sam struggled vainly against the heavy, invisible restraints, pleading with Molly to reconsider what she was doing. But his verbal appeals were met only with a rapid constriction of the weighty chains that connected his shackles to each of the four bedposts. The chains were tightened so much that Sam could barely move; any thought of his physical wellbeing absent. The already taut chains continued to be pulled shorter until he lay racked on the bed, his arms and legs tugged so tighly apart that he swore his limbs were all in impending danger of being ripped off.

"_MOLLY! PLEASE STOP!_" he shrieked loudly, the pain far too intense to contain. "_OR_ _YOU'RE GOING TO KILL ME!_"


	10. Chapter 10

_A/N:_

_Just a brief warning that this chapter contains some rather descriptive torture. So, read it or not based on you own discretion._

* * *

Tied spread-eagled to the bed and waiting for the full extent of Molly's wrath to unleash itself, Sam was in so much agony that he couldn't stop himself from hyperventilating as he wondered what was going to happen to him. Whatever it was wasn't going to be pleasant; the brutality with which the incensed spirit had strapped him to the bed made that perfectly clear. And the severe constriction of the cuffs binding his wrists and ankles, along with the punishing inflexibility of the iron chains racking him helplessly to the bedposts, further illustrated how intense her anger was. The cold metal shackles encircling Sam's wrists and ankles dug viciously into his skin and he could tell without seeing that his hands and feet were all drenched in his own blood. If his arms and legs hadn't been so excruciatingly wrenched out to his sides, he would have noticed that a lack of circulation had left all his extremities completely numb.

Sweat covered both his face and body as he struggled to gain control of the insufferable pain. He closed his eyes and waited; afraid of what he might see if he left them open. Not being able to see Molly didn't mean that he wouldn't be able to see whatever it was she decided to torture him with. God knew there were a multitude of weapons stashed everywhere around the room. Dean's bowie knife was probably still hidden between the mattress and box spring of his bed and there were other various types of guns and weaponry stowed underneath the beds and tucked into drawers and different places throughout the cramped room.

After ten or fifteen long-drawn-out minutes, the torment he dreaded still hadn't materialized; in fact, nothing at all had happened and Sam began to wonder if Molly had had a change of heart. Or, maybe, her initial fury had sufficiently abated after she had so maliciously trussed him to the bed. Sam let a few more minutes pass before he cautiously opened his eyes. But what met his wary gaze made his heart skip a beat and he promptly squeezed them shut again.

Because Dean's large bowie knife was hovering hazardously close to his right eye.

And he had watched Dean sharpen the damn thing just the day before.

He immediately realized he had made a critical mistake; opening his eyes just long enough to witness the demented spirit's intentions. She had undoubtedly been waiting patiently for his apprehension to wane, more than willing to delay the torture until Sam was fully aware of what type of punishment was in store for him.

Gulping down his rising panic, Sam squeezed his eyes shut as the razor-sharp blade of Dean's knife pressed down on his cheekbone; the exerted pressure not quite strong enough to perforate his skin. The highly-sharpened cutting edge of the blade meandered slowly down the side of Sam's face, chafing its way right down to his jaw. The knife was then tilted up onto its tip and the finely-chiseled point shoved harshly into his skin. Sam flinched, drawing in an agonizing breath as blood spurted forth from the small, circular wound. But acting as if nothing at all had happened, Molly leisurely dragged the extremely sharp edge of the knife along the underside of Sam's chin, upholding the pressure on the knife so that it sliced a bloody, pencil-thin line all the way across his jawbone.

The unbearable torture now much more than he could bear, Sam drove the back of his head deeply into the pillow as he gritted his teeth to stop from screaming out; regardless of the misery she inflicted, he simply wasn't willing to give Molly the satisfaction of hearing him cry out in anguish. And as much as he could have easily slipped into a more-than-welcome state of unconsciousness, he knew that, at the present time, Molly was vindictive enough to stop torturing him the minute that he wasn't alert enough to feel it. And that she would only recommence tormenting him after he had fully reawakened.

The malicious trek across Sam's jawline completed, the blood-soaked blade was yanked away from his face. But the grisly torture didn't end there. Molly grabbed Sam's shirt, lifting it just far enough off his bloody, sweat-ridden body for the knife to hack through the cotton fabric of the collar. With the initial slice in the neckline completed, the knife was repositioned vertically so that, with each additional downward slash through the shirt, its finely-honed point stabbed callously into Sam's well-muscled torso. Each cruel jab into his body caused him to groan out in agony from the unbearable pain. On the final thrust through the shirt Molly pushed the finely-honed tip of the knife into Sam's abdomen, grinding it deeply into his flesh as she vindictively twisted it back and forth. In response to the evil affliction, Sam raised his torture-ridden upper body minutely off the bed, only to be halted by the unyielding chains that held him tight. Collapsing back onto the mattress, the evil blade was finally withdrawn from his groin and Sam raspily sucked in a wavering breath before emitting a low, disparaging moan.

Fearing that the sadistic torture was still at its onset, Sam braced himself for the next round, mentally distancing himself from his body by trying to focus on happier times. But no matter what direction his mind took, it always came back to the same thing:

His brother.

Dean had always been there looking out for him, protecting him, comforting him and, even fighting his battles for him. Everytime it was needed, Dean could also be counted on to patch up whatever injuries he had sustained in whatever situation they had been involved in. But he couldn't expect his brother to do any of those things now; it was far too dangerous for him to step foot anywhere near here now. Because, with the mood Molly was in, she'd be more than willing to suspend her torture of him and go at Dean with every evil ounce of her being, not stopping until she killed him.

And, if Sam's time perception was still worth anything, he knew that Dean would to return very, very soon.

So against his better judgment, Sam decided to try to talk to the incensed spirit; see if he could get her to calm down a bit before his brother arrived. "Molly?" he ventured quietly.

There was nothing by way of a response, not even the slightest movement from the large hunting knife that still hovered in the air above his head.

"Look, I'm sorry," he offered hoarsely. "I really only wanted to help you."

The knife lowered to his throat.

"Molly," Sam persisted, even though his anxiety had excelerated so that it was nearly through the roof, "I know you're mad at me, but this really isn't any way to treat a friend."

Molly thrust the sharp blade into his neck, just below his collarbone, forcing Sam to take another deep breath.

"Could we just talk for a minute, Molly?"

There was no reaction to his request.

"Listen Molly, I was stupid to keep inquiring about your boyfriend when you specifically told me to stop. I know I should have listened to you. But I can't change what happened. I can only promise I won't do anything like that again."

Molly slowly removed the knife from his neck, but still kept it swaying in the air, just a few inches from her captive's face.

Sam hesitated as he stared at the deadly blade, unsure whether it was actually a good idea to continue. But he also realized that he could quite possibly lose everything if he didn't persevere. So, swallowing what little pride he had left, Sam decided it would be best to just concede defeat.

"Please, Molly," he pleaded timidly, "I promise I'll do everything that you want me to from now on."

No sooner were the submissive words out of his mouth when the knife dropped harmlessly onto the bed. Even though it had come at a trouble cost to him, Sam breathed a huge sigh of relief. He had just verbally given away what was left of his own free will. But, all in all he viewed it as a fair trade. Not only had he been able to placate Molly enough that she released the knife, he had also been successful at stopping the horrible torture. And now that he had managed to get himself away from any immediate danger, with any luck at all, he'd be able to ensure that Dean stayed out of harm's way as well.

Molly shifted her weight, moving from the bottom of the bed over to Sam's left side, jiggling the entire bed as she prepared to lie down beside him. Her abnormally cold body snuggled up to his, the abhorrent sensation making him gasp as he tried to avoid shuddering from the unwelcome closeness. Molly tucked what remained of his tattered shirt underneath him before setting her hand down on Sam's bare chest, seemingly unaffected by the sticky blood that had begun drying on his torso. The frostiness of her touch involuntarily caused Sam to jump and he was somewhat afraid that his instinctive reaction would once again upset the unstable spirit. But he relaxed a little bit as Molly cuddled closer up to him, laying her head gently on his shoulder.

As disturbing as the bizarre situation was, Sam forced himself into complacency. After all, he had agreed to abide by her demands. And, if what she wanted was to lie down next to him, Sam didn't see any logical reason why he shouldn't be able to cope with that. But just as his harried nerves began to settle down, the pain of his injuries took hold and a rapid quivering came over his entire body. It was a natural reaction to the blood loss and torture Molly had inflicted on him and had undoubtedly been made worse by the fact that her frosty body was now nestled tightly up against him. Unable to make the incessant shivering stop on his own, Sam decided it might be better to broach the subject before it ended up annoying her.

"Molly, I'm...I'm cold. And I'm...shivering. Please help me."

The spirit didn't move.

"I think it's from the blood loss that's making me shiver."

She still gave no indication that she was paying attention.

"I really, really need your help, Molly."

She pressed a cold finger against his lips.

"Molly," Sam persisted, whispering softly underneath her finger, "Please help me."

Sam's desperate pleading must have had some effect on the spirit because he heard the the bottom drawer of the dresser at the far end of the room slowly slide open. The blanket that was stored there drifted slowly up into the the air, spreading itself out as it approached the bed and gently floated down on top of them., Sam watched as the blanket fell across both himself and his invisible companion, more than a little surprised to witness a very distinct outline of her body come into view underneath the blanket. Quickly warming up underneath the thick covering, the trembling in Sam's body gradually slowed and he whispered a quiet thank-you to his captor.

But the extreme discomfort in his strongly tethered arms and legs kept him from feeling any sense of well-being and the horrendous pain that tore through his arms and legs, coupled with the severity of his recently inflicted wounds, intensified the longer he lay there. And even though he tried not to dwell on it, the overly-taut bindings were much too torturous for him to ignore. Still he opted to suffer in silence for what seemed like an incredibly long time, before he decided to push his trepidation aside in a last ditch attempt to get Molly to create some much-needed slack in his chains.

"Molly," he proposed lightly, praying his statement at least came across as sounding sincere, "If you'll let me, I'd really like to put my arm around you."

But once again, nothing happened. Sam tried to readjust his position on his own, but was not surprised by the complete futility of his efforts.

Sighing, he tried one more time, this time getting more to the point. "We could probably both be much more comfortable if you'd just loosen the chains a bit and let me hold you."

Molly clasped her freezing-cold hand viciously over Sam's nose and mouth, all but suffocating him at the same time as it forced him to be silent. He twisted his head back and forth rapidly, trying to dislodge her hand in order to breath. But Molly clamped down harder, the pressure increasing tenfold and ensuring that her unspoken order was coming through loud and clear. This time, Sam knew better than to continue pushing his luck. He stopped struggling and lay quietly on the bed, resigning himself to whatever spiteful punishment Molly was going to render and silently hoping that his obedience would lead to her removing her hand very soon. Just as he felt he was going to pass out from lack of oxygen, a loud crash shook the door to the motel room. Molly's hand jumped off Sam's face at the same time as a second loud smash reverberated around the small room. Sam breathed in thankfully and turned to look just in time to see the door being violently kicked open.

His heart skipped a beat.

Dean had arrived.

Sam wanted to call out to his brother, tell him to leave, warn him about Molly. There were a million things he wanted to alert him to but his mind was a blur; he couldn't think straight. Nor could he find the ability to speak. The prolonged torture, mixed with his overwhelming pain and recent deprivation of air, had completely starved both his body and mind so that now he felt like he was only a participant in some psychologically-charged dream and that none of this was really happening. Not that he was in any position to stop it, even if it was.

Dean burst into the room, spraying holy water in all directions. Flinging the phantom-repelling liquid on as many objects as his fervent tosses could reach - lamps, tables, chairs, dressers, the television and even his own bed – Dean quickly drained the overly large flask. Grabbing another flask from inside his jacket, he hastily turned it upside down, dumping the entire contents over his head and saturating his body before he discarded the two bottle on the floor behind him.

Then, Dean grinned maniacally at the hidden shapes on Sam's bed.

"Come and get me now, Bitch!" he challenged loudly.

A strong whoosh of air traveled across the room, stopping dead only inches from the oldest Winchester brother and, although the wind gust had been powerful enough to knock him from his feet, Dean somehow managed to stand his ground.

"You can't touch me, Sweetheart!" declared Dean haughtily, "Not as long as I'm drenched in this stuff!"

Without warning a lamp that had been too far away for the holy water to splash flew across the room directly toward Dean. It was followed quickly by a small table chair and the telephone. Dean easily sidestepped the first two items and ducked out of the way of the third but when he looked back up, a drawer from Sam's night table was headed straight for him.

Deflecting the drawer with his elbow, Dean taunted, "Sure you can throw things at me Molly! But sooner or later the only items you'll have left will be the ones I poured holy water on!" With a uppity grin he added, "And you can't touch those!"

That said, Dean quickly pulled out another flask, once again dousing whatever its contents could reach. As he worked to ensure that most of the items in the room would remain untouchable by Molly, other smaller items, most of them from the bathroom, came soaring toward him: first an iron, then a blow dryer and a small shelf flew across the room. The toilet seat, a mirror and other items followed next, coming in such rapid succession that Dean's only choice was to dive behind his bed to avoid them. When the assault was finally over, he rose slowly to his feet, chuckling lightly to prove to the irate poltergeist just how futile her latest mode of attack had been.

But, standing up and glancing toward his brother's bed, the lop-sided grin fell instantly from his face.

Sam was sitting up, Dean's large bowie knife rammed tightly against his throat.


	11. Chapter 11

Dean froze; what he saw before him was far too reprehensible to believe. Sam's entire body was soaked in blood. From his jaw all the way down to his waist. Sam's neck appeared to have been painted crimson red, the excess life-sustaining fluid left to trickle across his shoulders before congealing in winding, irregular streaks all down his chest. Dark burgundy splotches scattered down the middle of his torso only marginally concealed the deep, penetrating stab wounds from whence they originated. And the dried bloody droplets that were splattered all over Sam's face and upper body made him look like he was the victim of some sort of twisted psychedelic experiment. The gruesome totality of the macabre torture was so preposterous that it almost looked faked.

Only it wasn't.

It was Dean's worst nightmare come true.

His anxiety mounting, Dean stared transfixed at the grisly image that was his brother. And aside from the blood that covered his body, Sam's head was being yanked so far backward that his Adams-Apple bobbed erratically in his throat and his chest heaved in labored unison with his tortured, sporadic breathing. His eyes were heavy, half-closed and yet they managed to successfully seek out his older brother. Pain and trepidation filled his eyes. But there was something even more unsettling about Sam's gaze. His eyes were bleak and cloudy; unseeing and unrecognizable.

They were dead. As dead and void as the eyes of any otherworldly entity they had ever encountered.

Dean's heart sank. He realized that, when it came right down to it, he was to blame for his brother's condition. For everything that had happened to Sam. For everything that Molly had done to him. He had knowingly left Sam alone with her. And, by doing so, he had provided her with the means and opportunity to torture him. And she had done that expertly until he was left within inches of his live. And it was all because Dean had let her.

It was all is fault. He hadn't been around to stop the torture. He hadn't protected his brother. Not like he had always promised he would. Not like he had promised his father. And sworn over and over again to Sam that he wouldn't ever let anything harm him. But, in the end, his promises meant nothing.

He had failed.

He had underestimated his opponent and misjudged the sadistic magnitude of her sadism, resulting in all the torture that Sam had endured. He had been the cause of all of Sam's distress. Sam has been tortured because of his incompetence.

With nothing left to lose, Dean did the only thing he felt he could do; he dropped the empty flask on the floor and surrendered his hands out to his sides.

"Okay Molly. I quit," Dean acquiesced. "You win. Just…just drop the knife, will ya?"

Molly gave no indication that she had even heard Dean's admission of defeat let alone accepted it, because nothing in the small, crowded room changed.

"Look," Dean offered quietly, unzipping his jacket and opening it up to reveal the inside, "I'm all outta holy water. I got nothin' left to fight you with. I can't hurt you anymore. Or stop you. And as soon as the holy water dries everything goes to normal. Me included. Then you can go at me to your heart's content. I won't try to stop you. Just leave Sammy alone…please."

This time Molly responded by yanking Sam's head farther backward so that his chin was perpendicular to the floor, exposing the long, harrowing gash that she had previously carved into the underside of his jaw.

"Stop!" Dean bellowed, "Don't hurt him anymore! He can't take it!"

The razor-sharp edge of the knife pushed into the stretched skin of Sam's neck, poking into it deeply but stopping just before it drew blood.

Incited by Molly's audaciousness, Dean's guilt over his brother's horrible predicament quickly began to turn into anger. His rage grew until he could clearly see what was happening. Molly was toying with him. Testing him to see just how far he'd let her go before he offered to leave. But she was pushing her luck. Because what she was really doing was bullying Sam to get to him. And there was no way in Hell that Dean was going to stand for that.

It was time to make her turn her attention and anger to where they really belonged.

To him.

"Admit it Molly…it's not Sam you want to carve up with that knife. You're in love with him. And you just want him to love you back. But, face it Molly, he's not gonna do that as long as you keep torturing him."

Nothing happened. After a brief pause Dean continued, discreetly upping the ante as he spoke.

"We both know it's me you want to get rid of, Molly. You know I'm always gonna be a thorn in your side. I'll always be around to stop Sam from being with you. I'm never gonna leave. In fact, I plan on stickin' around forever just to make sure he never falls for some love-obsessed psycho-chick like you!"

The low echo of Dean's words faded away and the room fell silent. It seemed as if his challenge had had no effect on his adversary. but within minutes Molly retaliated by whipping the knife over to the side of Sam neck and resting its finely-honed blade right on top of his carotid artery. Sam tensed, gulping involuntarily at the increased threat. But he didn't utter a sound as his terror-filled eyes once again sought out his older brother. But Dean avoided meeting his gaze, knowing, that if he did, it would break his resolve and he wouldn't be able to continue.

"Nice try Molly, but there's no way you're not gonna follow through on that. You're just hopin' it'll be enough to get me to back down. Well, I got news for you, Bitch. That ain't ever gonna happen!"

Outwardly Dean looked like the picture of confidence. But inside he was a bundle of nerves. He could very well be making the biggest mistake of his entire life. One that could end in Sam's death. And, again, it would be his fault. Still, he stood his ground; positive he was making the right move.

Things were at a standstill. Molly didn't react and the knife didn't move. Sam remained frozen in place, knowing that one wrong move could spell disaster. Dean also stood stock-still, glaring into the vacant air where he believed Molly might be.

Finally Dean had had enough waiting and inquired irately, "We just gonna stand here all day?"

Nothing moved.

"Why don't ya just go ahead and let Sammy go, Molly?" continued Dean. "Save us all a lotta time and aggravation. Doesn't seem like you got any other plan."

Molly maneuvered the knife so that it lay up against the base of Sam's ear. She then tugged the knife backward, slicing a smooth, paper-thin cut right underneath Sam's ear. He gasped from the unexpected pain as a small gush of blood dripped down his neck. Dean paid little heed to the latest assault; he knew it was nothing more than a superficial cut and was simply the latest in Molly's endless and desperate attempts to dissuade him.

"That all you got, Bitch?" Dean jeered. "Because you'll have to do better than that. You're not gonna kill Sam or else you woulda done it already! And just remember that if you do kill him, your little romance will be all over before it even gets started! Sammy will _never _love you back! You'll just make him hate you for the rest of eternity!"

Another short stand-off ensued; no one made a sound. But then the knife waveringly moved away from Sam's neck at the same time as the grip on his hair relaxed. Molly didn't drop the weapon; instead she kept it hovering in the air just above the mattress. Nor did Molly relinquish her hold on Sam. But any immediate danger had been averted.

"Nice to know you're not completely stupid," goaded Dean angrily. "But don't forget…I'm still here. And I'm not goin' anywhere. Not until you release my brother."

Taking advantage of his newfound freedom, Sam replied raspily to his brother. "D-D-Dean, p-p-please s-s-stop taunting her. Y-y-you're gonna get hurt."

"Shut-up Sammy."

"B-b-b-but you d-d-d-don't know what's she's capable of."

"I gotta rough idea."

"P-p-please s-s-stop. J-j-j-just, just go," stammered Sam weakly. "I d-d-don't want h-h-her to hurt you."

"Stay outta it, Sammy," Dean ordered.

"B-b-but, D-D-Dean…."

"_I said __**stay outta it!"**_bellowed Dean harshly,** "**She can't ditch out anything I can't handle."

"P-p-please Dean."

"Sammy, this has nothing to do with you! So bow out! It's between Molly and me!"

"D-D-D-Dean," Sam pleaded once more, even though it was obvious his pleas were falling on deaf ears.

"_**For the last time Sammy - Shut-up!**_"

Reluctantly, Sam gave up. There was simply no reasoning with his brother when he was like this. And in all likelihood his feeble protests were only succeeding in encouraging Molly; leading her to believe that, if she persisted in threatening him, Dean would eventually leave. But Sam knew better. His brother had no intention of leaving; he was going to stay and provoke Molly until she redirected all her anger and attention on him.

But Sam was afraid that Dean would take it too far.

And Molly wouldn't stop until she killed him.

The conversation with Sam finished, Dean recommenced challenging his invisible opponent. "What's wrong, Molly? Too scared to tangle with me?" When the spirit didn't provide a response, Dean snorted haughtily, "I was right. You're just a fuckin' chicken. Only capable of preying on poor, innocent people who don't have the ability to fight back. You're just not brave enough to go up against anyone else."

That did it; without warning, Dean was propelled against the far wall, rigidly held by the neck about four feet off the ground. Pinned to the wall, he watched helplessly as his bowie knife zoomed across the room, coming to an abrupt halt as the tip pressed viciously into his cheek. Looking at the knife from the corner of his eye, Dean didn't move. In fact, he didn't react at all. Not even as the enraged spirit pushed the razor-sharp blade into his skin and dragged it slowly across his cheekbone, extracting a steady stream of blood in its wake.

It was only when the knife was lifted off his face that Dean reacted. Quickly grasping the handle as it hovered menacingly in front of him Dean twisted the knife around as vigorously as he could, easily dislodging the knife from Molly's grip. Spinning the deadly weapon around he lashed out wildly in front of him and as he swung the imposing blade from side to side, Molly's released her grip on his neck, letting him drop unceremoniously to the floor. Still brandishing the knife in front of him, Dean stood up, being extremely careful to keep his back pressed firmly against the wall so that Molly couldn't sneak up behind him.

Dean's risky gamble had paid off. His hunch had been bang-on. Molly hadn't realized that he couldn't see her and as soon as he had taken the knife away from her, she had backed off, fearing that he would stab her. And she was right. He would have stabbed her if only she'd had a physical body. But without one, she couldn't be harmed by earthly weapons. Only she didn't know that.

And Dean certainly wasn't going to reveal that crucial bit of information to her.

Certain that she was still nearby and watching him, Dean desperately tried to remain focused. This was as far as he had been able to formulate his plan. And he didn't really know exactly how to proceed. But he did know that he had to keep Molly's attention centered on him. He couldn't let her revert back to Sam.

Still standing against the wall, Dean wiped his cheek with the back of his hand. It came away coated in blood. Glancing disdainfully at it, Dean chuckled.

"That's all you got, Molly? That's all you're capable of?" He huffed and added, "And to think I was a little bit afraid of what you might do."

As Dean tried to come up with his next move, the laptop suddenly lifted off the bed in front of him and floated over to the other bed right next to Sam where it remained hovering just a few inches off the bed, obviously resting on Molly's lap. Dean breathed a huge sigh of relief; now he knew exactly where the spirit was and he'd be able to keep an eye on her. The laptop opened and the keyboard rapidly clicked away. Despite himself, Sam glanced at the computer screen.

_**TELL HIM TO LEAVE!**_

Sam read the words, and although he knew it was a futile request, he voiced Molly's order. "She wants you to leave Dean."

"I bet she does," retorted Dean.

Not waiting for Molly to type another message, Sam hastily tried again, "Look Man, she's giving you a chance to leave. On your own. "

"That's nice Sam. But it's so not gonna happen. Not unless you come with me."

_NO!_ Molly typed swiftly. _YOU'RE NOT GOING ANYWHERE!_

Sam sighed before pleading one more time, "Com'on, Dean. Will you just go? Before things get worse."

"How can they possibly get any worse, Sammy?"

"_Dean_…" Sam impelled, hoping the urgency in his voice would convey the danger his brother was courting.

"I told you before. I'm not leaving. And Molly, and her useless threats, can go straight to Hell."

Sam rolled his eyes before glancing at what Molly had pounded furiously on the keyboard:

_TELL HIM THAT THIS IS HIS LAST CHANCE TO LEAVE UNHARMED!_

"Dean, you're just making her mad again." offered Sam, skirting the spirit's message by trying one more time to reason with his brother.

"Don't care Sammy," snapped Dean as if he was fully aware of exactly what Sam was doing.

"Dean. For just this once will you please be reasonable?"

"What's there to be reasonable about, Sammy? I came here to finish this. I still can't get anywhere near you. And she's still got you hostage. Nothing's changed. And I'm not leavin' 'til it does! And you walk outta here with me"

"The only thing that's gonna change Dean, is you're gonna end up getting hurt! And I don't want to be responsible for that."

"How could you possibly be responsible for what happens to me?"

"Because Dean, you always rush in head-first with your only thought being to rescue me. You never think about the danger you're putting yourself in and it never occurs to you that maybe, just maybe, I can handle some situations on my own!"

Dean surveyed his brother's battered, bloody body. "Well...bang up job on this one so far, Sammy."

Sam sighed. He was tired. His body ached and his head was swimming. He felt like he was going to pass out at any minute. But he couldn't; not as long as Dean stuck around. He just wanted his brother to leave, to get safely out of Molly's reach and, although Dean didn't believe that he could handle the sadistic spirit, Sam knew he could. He just didn't know how he could possibly convince his brother.

"Dean, Molly's giving you a chance to leave unharmed. Will you please take advantage of that. If not for your own sake, for mine."

"Sorry, Sammy. I can't do that."

"What if Molly promised she wouldn't hurt me anymore?"

"Yeah, like I'd believe anything that bitch says."

Sam rolled his eyes and turned his attention to the invisible spirit. "Molly, you like me, right?"

_What kind of a silly question is that?_

"You remember what Dean said about what'll happen if you kill me?"

_You mean the part where he said you'd never love me back?_

"Yeah. That's the part."

_Is that true?_

"Yeah, it is Molly. It's what happens when people die. If you kill me, my spirit will stay as far away from yours as possible. Forever."

_How do you know that?_

"Because I know a thing or two about what can happen after death. So does Dean."

_But… you love me now don't you?_

"I'm sorry, Molly," Sam apologized quietly, "But after the torture you put me through, I'm not sure what I think about you. But I know we can still be friends."

_But I want more than that from you!_

"_**Sammy?**_" Dean interrupted heatedly, after listening to what his brother had said to the spirit. "_**What exactly do you think you're doing?**_"

Sam raised his hand to silence his brother but Dean wasn't in the mood to be pacified. He was incensed at his younger brother. He knew what Sam was trying to do. He was trying to bargain with the deranged spirit. And no good could possibly come from that. So without thinking, Dean lunged forward, trying to get over to his brother. He needed to see what was written on the laptop. But before he got more than a few feet he was stopped dead in his tracks. A massive hand pressed firmly against his chest, impeding him from advancing any further. And as he struggled to free himself from the spirit's hold, Sam quickly spun the laptop to face him.

Typing quickly Sam input a hasty-written message:

_Molly, I need you to do me a favor._

_What?_

_I need you to get rid of Dean._


	12. Chapter 12

"_**WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING, SAMMY?**_" Dean bellowed loudly.

Sam didn't answer; he was too busy typing: Y_ou have to promise me that you won't hurt him, Molly! I don't want him injured…I just want you to take him out of the room. Okay?_

Slightly confused by Sam's request, Molly typed back slowly: _But you've always wanted him here before?_

_I know._ Sam typed swiftly, ignoring his brother's continual, irate squabbling in the background. _But I've changed my mind. I don't want him here anymore._

_Why not?_

_Never mind that for now. Please just get rid of him. But - before you do, I need your promise that you're not going to hurt him._

_Okay._

_That's not exactly what I had in mind Molly._

_I don't see what's wrong with it._

_What's so hard about saying that you promise?_

_But I already said that._

_Whatever. _typed Sam,_ But, if you really are sincere about it, how about giving me something to back it up._

_Like what?_

_What about…something like your full name or place of birth._

_Why do you want that?_

_Please, Molly. I'm asking you to get rid of my brother so we can be alone. But I'd like something in return from you too._

There was a pause in the typing as Molly considered Sam's request but the room was anything but quiet; Dean continued to rant and rave as he struggled to break away from Molly and stop Sam from communicating with her. Waiting apprehensively for Molly's reply Sam glanced up nervously at his brother, wanting to convey that he had everything under control. But when their eyes met Dean looked less than impressed; in fact, if looks could kill, Sam was pretty sure he'd be dead. Slightly guilt-ridden Sam looked away. If everything went as planned, Dean would understand shortly.

Then Molly noisily banged in her response on the keyboard:

_Molly Strickland. Grandville, Michigan._

_You're the best Molly!_ Sam replied hastily._ Now…can you get Dean out of here?_

_And what exactly do you want me to do with him?_

_Just take him outside. And make sure he can't get back in._

_Whatever__._

Sam could almost hear the exasperation in her tone but as long as she kept her promise and didn't hurt Dean, Sam was willing to accept that. He would deal with whatever consequences came his way. Molly had given him what he needed; now he just had to find some way to pass it on to Dean without raising her suspicions.

And that was going to be the tricky part.

As Molly's weight shifted off the bed beside him, Sam waited with bated breath, wondering how closely she would keep to her promise. It only took a second for him to have his answer. Grasping Dean roughly by the neck, she proceeded to lift him leisurely off the ground, letting him dangle in midair like a fish on a hook. She squeezed his throat tighter and tighter until Dean had extreme difficulty breathing. He instinctively reached for his neck, wrapping his fingers around her invisible hand and trying as hard as he could to dislodge her evil grip. But there was nothing he could do to stop Molly from choking him to death if she so chose.

Completely outraged at her behavior, Sam admonished the incensed spirit, "Molly! Stop! You promised me you wouldn't hurt him!"

But, as usual, Molly paid no attention to Sam and she began to shake Dean violently back and forth as easily as if she was holding a rag-doll, jerking Dean's body grotesquely in the air, his neck in grave danger of snapping if her horrible machinations carried on for much longer.

"_**Molly Strickland! Stop that this instant!**_" roared Sam, fearing that all would be lost if he couldn't somehow control the reckless spirit.

The strict verbal command seemed to have had a momentary effect as there was an almost imperceptible hesitation in the spirit's relentless shaking.

Encouraged Sam persisted, using his newfound knowledge against her. "Maybe people in _Grandville, Michigan_ go back on their word but in _Lawrence, Kansas_ they don't!"

Molly stilled and the fervent shaking ceased. But Dean was left swaying in midair like a human pendulum, still helpless against his captor's grip. Staring angrily at the surreal scene in front of him, Sam vehemently cleared his throat; an indication that Molly had forgotten something. Immediately afterward, Molly relaxed her death grip on Dean's throat, allowing him to inhale a raspy breath of air. But Dean was spent from the torturous ordeal and he didn't even resume his struggle to free himself. Once again Sam's voice, hushed and emotionless this time, broke the eerie silence.

"Will you just take him outside now please, Molly?"

As exhausted as he was, Sam's request jolted Dean back to reality and he looked up, staring disbelieving and wide-eyed at his younger brother; it was a look that was somewhat akin to a deer stuck in the headlights. Recognition dawned as he realized exactly what Sam had been typing to Molly. And he was none too happy about it.

Feeling somewhat guilty and ashamed, Sam glanced away, inadvertently holding his breath as he waited to see what Molly would do next. Now that Dean knew what he had been doing, Sam didn't think he could stand his brother's presence in the cramped room for much longer. He was beginning to feel like a traitor. Even though he had managed to achieve what he had set out to do.

A moment later the motel room door inexplicably flew open, banging heavily into the wall behind it. Then, before Sam could blink an eye, Dean was violently thrust backwards, launched out of the room like a supercharged football. Sam could only watch in horror as his brother disappeared from view and the door slammed shut. Listening attentively, Sam strained to make out whatever he could from outside. He needed to hear something – anything - to tell him that Dean was okay. But the only sound he heard was the pounding of his own heart.

Totally distraught, Sam screamed out:

"_**MOLLY!!!**_"

The echo of Sam's heart-wrenching despair rebounded around the room and he slumped onto the bed, his head falling despondently into his hands. He should have known better than to trust Molly. Dean would have told him so. In fact, Sam was pretty sure he'd heard him mumble words to that effect as he had typed so frantically to Molly, doing his best to ignore his older brother. He had been so wrapped up in his plan, trusting that he had actually developed some sort of rapport with the spirit that would save both them both from further harm.

But he had been wrong.

It was true that his plan had initially gone off without a hitch but it had quickly fallen apart in the end. Sam didn't even know if his brother had been able to pick up the veiled details he had tried to convey. After all, Dean had been in a very real fight for his life and may not have been paying much attention to anything else that was going on around him. And now he was gone; this time for good. Just as Sam had wanted. As he Silently lamented the mess he had single-handedly created, Sam felt a cold hand rest lightly on his shoulder. Molly was back. And now she wanted him to provide her with some proof that he had asked for Dean to be sent away so that they could be alone. But Sam certainly didn't want to be anywhere near her now; he didn't even want to acknowledge to her.

He really just wanted to kill her.

With a heavy sigh Sam stated coldly, "That wasn't exactly how it was supposed to go, Molly."

_What are you talking about?_

Sam huffed. "The way you got Dean out of the room."

_So? He's gone isn't he?_

"Yeah, he's gone. But you weren't supposed to hurt him."

_I didn't._

"What do you mean you didn't?" challenged Sam in disbelief. "You were choking him so hard that he couldn't breathe. And the shaking wasn't exactly child's play either."

_So… you're mad at me now?_

Ignoring her Sam continued, "I asked you to take him outside. Not throw him out."

_He'll be okay._

"I bet."

_But we're alone now. Just like you wanted. What difference does any of this make?_

"It makes a world of difference Molly," was all Sam bothered to respond.

Their conversation at a standstill, the room reverted back to a deathly quiet. That is until the heavy curtains cloaking the window swung open. Sam looked up, slightly taken aback by the sight of his own image reflecting back at him. He had almost forgotten the torture he had endured and hadn't given any consideration to what kind of shape he was in. But now it was right there in front of him to see and all the injuries and dried blood were staring him directly in the face.

Trying to see past his own disturbing image, Sam squinted into the darkness. He could just barely make out the outline of his brother's beloved car. But as far as he could see, Dean was nowhere around. And he couldn't see past the Impala. Opening the curtains had been a futile waste of time and Sam began grow even angrier at Molly. What had been the point of letting him see outside if not to verify that his brother was going to be all right?

Then there was some movement behind the car. Striving to see through the darkness, Sam recognised the shrouded form of his brother was he hobbled closer. Bent over and moving slowly it was easy to see that Dean had been severely injured; Sam was amazed that he could even manage to walk on his own. But then he realized that he had expected nothing less. Because this was Dean. His brother, who had never learned to say enough was enough. He would never give up. Or give in.

And Sam reluctantly admitted that he actually took immense comfort in that.

Sam thought back to a time when they were both young, way back in when they were in grade school; Sam in second grade and Dean in sixth. It was only their third day at this particular school and some of older kids had found Sam sitting by all by himself at the back of the schoolyard. They started to taunt him, kicking sand at him and throwing small rocks and pebbles at him. Then, out of nowhere and just as fast, Dean arrived. He rushed in and pulled most of the kids away from the tight circle that had formed around his brother, even though they were older and bigger than him too. Confronting the ringleader, Dean told him he to quit "messin' with his brother." But the kid smirked right back at him and asked him exactly what a little twerp like him was going to do about it. So Dean hauled off and smacked him squarely in the jaw, putting an immediate halt to all the snickering that was going on behind him.

Dean got marched down to the office by the on-duty teacher and their father was called. Dean was suspended from school for starting an unprovoked fight and Dad had been pretty pissed off. He even threatened to drop him off at Pastor Jim's and leave him there for some church-going matron to adopt. Though it all, Dean didn't even try to defend himself. Sam was really afraid that Dad was actually going to follow through on his threat and wanted to tell him that Dean had just been defending him. But Dean wouldn't let him. He told Sam to just forget about it and eventually Dad would too. It was over and done with and that was that. But it hadn't been. Because Dean' had broken his hand in the fight and after a few days it was so bruised and swollen that Dad finally noticed and took him to the hospital. Grilled as to why he had neglected to mention it beforehand, Dean lied and said he hadn't noticed because his hand hadn't even been sore. But Sam knew better; he'd seen Dean favoring his hand whenever he didn't think anyone was watching.

But that was his older brother. And watching him now, it was obvious that he hadn't changed.

Dean labored towards the Impala, his left arm stretched across his torso He looked like he was trying to hold his broken body together as he slowly made his way to the Impala. As soon as he reached the driver's door, Dean leaned against the car and closed his eyes. His body racking with every breath he took, Sam was sure that he was going to pass out at any second. But Dean managed to pull himself together and he looked up, staring straight into the window, his gaze falling directly on Sam.

Amazingly, the overt pain in his eyes disappeared instantly and was replaced by a fleeting look of concern for Sam before he somehow managed to push himself off the Impala and stormed toward the window as if nothing was wrong. But when he was about four feet shy of the window Dean jolted to a sudden stop, smacking directly into some sort of invisible barricade. Clasping his hands around an unseen post, Dean attempted to pry it loose. But the only thing he accomplished was to put more strain on his already beleaguered body and he soon slumped forward, resting against the invisible bars that were keeping him away from the room.

The room was secured by some sort of wall; something Sam should have suspected, considering bars and chains seemed to be Molly's preferred choice for holding onto things. He was, after all, still chained to the bed. And even though she had loosened the shackles when she abruptly sat him up, she hadn't gone so far as to remove them altogether. It was only fitting that she had decided to construct a barred cage to keep Dean out.

Dean raised his head, glancing back inside the room. But he barely had enough time to catch his brother's gaze before the curtains hastily swung shut, once again obscuring their view of each other. Sam watched the heavy drapes rock back and forth as he listened to the muffled sound of his brother renewing his efforts to get inside. Sam knew it was futile but he wondered how long it would take for Dean to figure that out to. When he eventually heard Dean agonizingly call out his name he knew he had finally come to the same conclusion.

The Impala's door loudly squeeked open, momentarily increasing Sam's trepidation. And it didn't subside any as the car's engine roared to life and continuously revved loudly. As he listened to the impatient revving, Sam knew that Dean was sitting out there pumping the gas pedal wildly as he tried to decide what he was going to do next. The longer the revving continued, the more nervous Sam became, afraid that his brother would decide to do something rash. Something like maybe trying to drive his car through Molly's blockage. The only saving grace to that idea was that Dean loved his car almost as much as he loved Sam. He had to know that Molly's blockage would be impenetrable and the only thing he would accomplish would be wrecking his baby.

Finally, Sam heard the Impala squeal into reverse before it lurched heavily into drive and ripped out of the parking lot. Only then did Sam breath a sigh of relief. Although he really had no way of knowing where his brother was going or what he was up to. The only thing he knew for sure was that Dean was gone.

And he was still trapped in here with Molly.

All alone.


	13. Chapter 13

Speeding past the huge highway welcome sign Dean breathed a long-awaited sigh of relief; he'd made it. By driving all night with only three quick stops for gas - not bad for a big, old, gas-guzzler like the Impala– he had done it in just over nine-and-a-half hours. And although his body was sore and he was completely exhausted, he had survived the long drive. He was finally here.

Grandville, Michigan.

Dean had ignored his physical pain throughout the entire trip, blocking his physical agony out of his mind. Because getting to Grandville had taken priority over worrying about a few minor scrapes and bruises. There'd be time to look after those later. Besides, he'd been in way worse fights. With tougher adversaries than Molly. And he'd always survived whatever injuries he'd obtained in them. A little tête-à-tête with a poltergeist wasn't about to get him down. So he just sucked it up and got on with the job.

But, shifting stiffly in his seat, Dean realized that everything below his shoulders was completely numb; he could barely feel a thing. His whole body had been deadened by the pain that he had pushed from his consciousness by employing the same mental technique that the military teaches its soldiers: how to withstand torture. Dad had taught him how to employ it and, although it had come in handy innumerable times in the past, its usefulness had never been so obvious as tonight. But with the urgency to get to Grandville gone, the excruciating agony in his body rose to the forefront of his mind. Before he could set about finding Molly Strickland's grave, Dean knew he had someplace else to go first.

The hospital.

Slowing the Impala to a respectable speed so as not to draw any more attention than his forty-year-old car normally did, Dean looked for anything that would help him locate the hospital as he drove through town. But, after driving the entire length of the town, he hadn't seen anything to indicate where the hospital was located. Figuring he'd just missed the road signs because he was tired and sore, Dean spun the Impala around and drove back through town, eventually ending up right back where he had originally started.

Tired and frustrated, Dean decided that, as much as it was normally against everything in his nature, he should just go ahead and ask someone where the damn place was. He didn't have the time or the energy to drive around aimlessly trying to find it himself. Some stupid clerk at some stupid gas station had to be able to tell him where the hospital was.

Dean pulled into the nearest gas station and parked off to the far side of the building, well out of the range of the parking lot security cameras. It wasn't going to be pretty when he struggled his way out of the car and he didn't want anyone to bear witness to his physical ailments. Maybe it was his vanity rearing its ugly head but Dean chalked it up to prudence. You just never knew when something unsavory was going to happen and it was never a good idea to reveal your weaknesses to anyone.

Hobbling over to the door, Dean did his best to stand up straight and walk normally. But his injuries were now fully manifested and it agonizingly difficult to breath let alone move. He was stiff and aching all over. Walking took every ounce of energy he had and Dean was glad that it was only a short distance to the door. Still, he wished that, for just this once, he had ignored his usual hunter's habits and parked right out front. Besides, what could possibly go wrong in a gas station when all he needed was directions?

As Dean walked through the door, the attendant casually looked him over. "Rough night?" he asked offhandedly.

"Yeah, you could say that," droned Dean.

"What can I get ya?" disinterestedly inquired the clerk.

"Directions to the hospital."

The clerk, bored and tired after working all night, sighed, "Ya gonna buy something?"

"_What_?" replied Dean, slightly taken aback at the question.

"Ya want directions, ya gotta buy something."

"You gotta be fuckin' kidding me, Man."

"I don't make the rules, Bud."

"Com'om, gimme a break," Dean huffed, "It's been a _really_ long night."

"So you said. Still doesn't change things."

Dean gritted his teeth. This whole thing was turning into a nightmare. All he wanted were directions to the hospital. There was no way it should be this hard. He could even have stopped some bozo on the street and gotten directions from him without ever having to get out of his car. But he'd decided _this_ would be easier. And look where it had gotten him. Some two-bit, candy-ass gas station attendant was telling him he had to buy something before he'd give him directions. What kind of an idiot did he look like?

Tried and more than just a little pissed off, Dean removed his gun from the back of his jeans.

As he expertly pointed it at the surprised clerk, Dean retorted, "Yeah? Well, maybe _this'll_ change things."

"Hey, Man! Don't shoot me! I was just kiddin'!" blurted the clerk as he instinctive backed away and put his hands in the air.

"Yeah, I kinda figured so."

After waiting a minute for the clerk to say somethingmore, Dean prompted, "The hospital?"

"Oh…yeah…the hospital…Umm…just go left outta here and follow the main road all the way through town to Byron Centre Avenue. Turn left on Bryon and then right at the first set of lights. The hospital is about two blocks up that street on your right. Ya…ya can't miss it."

Mentally committing the directions to memory, Dean stood motionless, the gun still aimed at the hapless attendant.

"Yur…yur not gonna shoot me now are you?" asked the frightened clerk.

Ignoring him, Dean glanced quickly behind the counter and up at the security camera before emitted an almost inaudible groan at the extra work he had just caused himself. Waving the gun to motion the clerk to step out from behind the counter, Dean glanced outside to see if there was anyone nearby. But the entire area was empty; there wasn't a person to be seen. The attendant hadn't moved so, after emitted a heavy sigh, Dean walked around the counter and pushed him out from behind.

"Kidnapping's a federal offense!" clamored the clerk.

"Thank you, Barney Miller," answered Dean as he dragged the terrified clerk toward the back of the small store and over to office door. Dean tried to open the closed door but it was locked.

Turning to the clerk Dean ordered, ""Open it."

"I can't. It's locked."

"I can see that. Just get the damn key."

"Don't have one. The owner takes the keys home with him. Employees aren't even allowed in the office."

"Sign on the door says 'Employees Only'."

"Yeah, but that's just a sign. The owner won't let anyone else in the office"

Completely exacerbated now, Dean wasted no time kicking the door in. After pushing the clerk in ahead of him, Dean scanned the office for the video recorder he knew was hidden somewhere in there. But a quick glance didn't reveal it. So Dean waltzed behind the desk and searched all the drawers and shelves, keeping the gun trained on the clerk.

After looking everywhere, Dean demanded, "Where the hell is the fuckin' video recorder!"

"I dunno," shrugged the clerk.

Unimpressed, Dean cocked the gun.

"It's…it's under the desk!" spat the horrified clerk.

Dean looked under the desk and sure enough the recorder was sitting on the floor. This was perfect and just adding to the fun of this venture. Something else he really needed to do; get down on his hands and knees to retrieve a stupid surveillance tape. To avoid leaving fingerprints Dean wrapped his hand loosely in his shirt before he stiffly got down on one knee. Then with a threatening glance at the attendant, he reached under the desk to eject the tape. Once the videotape was in his grasp, he anchored himself on the desk with his forearm and laboriously got back to his feet. Then glaring once more at the agitated clerk, a silent warning to stay put, Dean lumbered out of the office. As he trudged painstakingly to the exit, every bone, organ and muscle in his body smarting, he could only think of one thing:

_I shoulda just bought a damn chocolate bar._

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

A warm, damp cloth wiping gently across his shoulders woke Sam from his pain-induced slumber, distracting him just enough that he didn't remember where he was right away. Or anything about how he had gotten here. That was, until he attempted to move his hand and the weight of the heavy manacle wrapped around his wrist instantly jarred his memory. And then it was total recall; everything that had happened came flooding back, all the torture, what had happened between him, Molly and Dean and the subsequent tossing of Dean out of the room. He remembered everything right down to the moment the Impala screeched loudly out of the parking lot.

Taking Dean along with it.

And with his brother gone, Sam had fallen backwards onto the bed and immediately slipped into blissful state of unconsciousness. Not that passing out wasn't totally justified; the torture he'd endured would have downed most men a long time ago. He'd lost a lot of blood and hadn't eaten anything in a very long time. Add that to the amount of energy he'd expended in his last conversation with Molly and it was almost inevitable that he would eventually succumb to his injuries. And, as soon as Dean had driven off, Sam had no reason left to remain conscious and he'd gladly accepted oblivion as a temporary escape from Molly.

But now he was awake and Molly was going to want an explanation of why he'd been so insistent that they actually be alone together. But Sam hadn't really thought that far ahead. His plan had only amounted to finding some way to cajole personal information out of the spirit. Something that he could hopefully pass on to Dean. Telling Molly he wanted to be alone with her was the only viable idea he had been able to come up with on such short notice. He had more or less been flying by the seat of his pants when he told her than and had never had the time to come up with anything tangible to say to her when his plan had succeeded. And then, to make matters worse, he'd passed out the minute Dean squealed out of the parking lot.

And, although he had no idea how long he'd been asleep, it had to have been long enough for Molly dream up some ideas of her own and she had undoubtedly construed her own twisted possibilities of what he was going to say. But not really knowing how else he was going to handle her, Sam figured he could start by telling her that they needed to spend some time together, get to know each other, see how compatible they were, discover their similarities and differences. Garbage girl-talk like that. But he knew almost before he'd completed that thought that it wouldn't be near enough to appease Molly. She would demand more.

Sam was just afraid to find out what 'more' might actually entail.

Sensing that her would-be-boyfriend was once again awake, Molly dropped the washcloth and ran her chilly hand lightly along Sam's chin before hooking her cold pointer finger on his jawbone and turning his head to look up at her. At least that's what Sam figured she must be doing because when he cautiously opened his eyes, the only thing he saw before him was the ceiling. Still, he managed a slight smile as he cleared his throat.

"H…h…hi Molly," he rasped.

Running her hand gently down the side of Sam's face, Molly intended for it to be a tender and comforting gesture. But the coolness of her touch was so foreign and uninviting that Sam inadvertently shivered. Not wanting Molly to see it as a sign of rejection, Sam decided he better say something quickly.

"So Dean's gone, huh? I guess that means we're alone now."

Molly rested her hand softly on Sam's shoulder, catching him off guard with the sheer frostiness of her touch. Sam could slowly feel the skin beneath her hand begin to cool down as the prolonged contact with the spirit began to produce an effect similar to frostbite. And it wasn't confined to the spot where her hand lay; he could feel his body temperature start to lower until he was in real danger of losing feeling in his entire chest. Pretty soon it would sink down to his heart. And then he'd be in trouble

It was like another form of torture all over again.

Knowing he had to do something before he froze to death, Sam suggested, "Maybe we could talk now Molly."

It was a long, tense minute before Molly removed her hand and her weight shifted as she reached over and grabbed the laptop. Sam resisted rubbing his ice-cold skin to harm it up, knowing it would just insult Molly. So, instead he just covered himself with the blanket that still lay across his waist. Not wanted to sit up and expose himself to Molly, Sam simply turned his head to see the computer screen after Molly opened the laptop and entered into her favorite chatroom.

_What do you want to talk about Sam?_

Great. She expected him to start the conversation.

"Well, um, Molly, maybe before we really start talking, do you think you could do me a favor?"

_What's that?_

"Could you maybe get me some food. I'm a little hungry."

_Hungry? Why would you be hungry now?_

"Well, Molly, maybe it's because I haven't eaten in over a day. That usually makes a person hungry."

_Not me._

"I know Molly. But that's because…well…because you're special. But I'm not. And I could really use something to eat right now.

_But you don't need food._

"Of course I need food."

_No. You don't._

"What makes you say I don't need food Molly?"

_You'll see._

"Please Molly," pleaded Sam, "It's hard enough for me to talk to a pretty girl. Let alone try to do it while I'm starved."

_Just believe me Sam. It'll go away soon._

"What? My desire to talk to you? Or my hunger pangs?"

_You won't be hungry soon. Then you'll just get used to not eating. And be just like me._

"Then…how about a glass of water instead?"

_Sam, trust me. You don't really need water either._

Sam sighed. This wasn't going very well. And he was running out of patience. He'd been chained to the bed for longer than he cared to think about. And he was completely at her mercy. He was getting really sick of it.

"What if you just went ahead and unchained me Molly? Then I could walk around the room. Go to the bathroom. All that kind of stuff. It would be so much better for our relationship if I wasn't completely dependent on you."

_You won't feel the chains soon._

"What do you mean by that?"

_Have some patience Sam. It won't be long now._

"Aw com'on Molly. You're talkin' in riddles. And I'm just not gettin' any of it. So why don't ya either clear it up a bit for me. Or just let me go."

_The chains won't be able to hold you much longer._

Confused, Sam didn't answer. He wasn't quite sure what Molly was trying to say. How could her chains possibly not hold him for much longer? Were they only effective for a certain length of time? Or were they just somehow going to disintegrate? Not that Molly seemed willing to tell him. And he had no knowledge of the poltergeist legend to fall back on.

Besides, he'd lost all interest in speaking with her. It was totally pointless anyway. He'd already obtained the information he needed and, hopefully, passed it successfully to Dean. All he had to do now was wait for his brother to track down her grave, dig her up and salt and burn her bones. That was all that was needed to bring a sudden end to the evil spirit. There just wasn't any point playing any more games with her. And trying to talk to her just amounted to another game. One he had no desire at all to play. If she wanted to talk to him, let her continue the conversation; he'd just provide vague enough answers to keep her pacified until she was destroyed.

But Molly didn't continue the conversation either. She shut the laptop and got off the bed, setting the computer on the nightstand between the beds. But the room remained quiet and still and Sam had no idea where she went after that. Still, he didn't much care and closed his eyes, trying to block all images of her from his mind. Unfortunately his mind didn't co-operate and he kept mentally replaying their conversation over and over again. How she told him he didn't need food. Or water. That the chains weren't going to hold him. And as he mulled it over in his head, the entire conversation began to take on very sinister overtones.

Maybe she had done something to him while he'd been unconscious. Or maybe she was going to do something to him soon. Or maybe he was just imaging it all.

But Sam's train of thought was broken as he felt Molly kneel on the bed beside him. She leaned over so that her face was right next to his. He could feel her frosty breath in his ear. And as her lips brushed his ear Sam heard a low, soft whisper.

"I love you, Sam."


	14. Chapter 14

Sam gulped; afraid to acknowledge, even to himself, what had just happened. Not only had Molly spoken directly to him but he had actually heard her. Clear as a bell. And twice as loud. The very idea of it chilled him to the bone. And filled him with an all-encompassing sense of dread. Because whatever had changed that allowed him to hear her couldn't possibly be a good thing. It had to be an omen of some kind. A flagrant warning that something terrible was about to happen.

Or maybe something much worse:

Irrefutable proof that something horrible had already occurred.

But whatever it was, it certainly didn't bode well for Sam.

Still trying to cope with the initial shock, Sam's apprehension only increased as Molly slowly began stroking her ice-cold fingertips through his hair, starting leisurely at his temple and tracing downward, behind his ear to the nape of his neck before she stopped and let her fingers linger gently on his skin. While the playful spirit flirtatiously wound his hair around her index finger Sam inadvertently held his breath in an unconscious effort to slow his racing heart, hoping that Molly wouldn't mistake it for more than it was.

But as vexed as he was by all the latest developments, Sam was far more afraid of something else.

What Molly was going to do next. And…

What is was that she expected from him.

Deciding to disregard everything that had happened in the last five minutes, Sam cleared his throat and croaked hoarsely, "Molly, if you get the laptop we could talk."

"_But we don't need the laptop anymore, Sam."_

Although he had heard everything Molly had said, Sam continued to pretend that he couldn't and, after a short time elapsed, he asked, "Aren't you going to talk to me, Molly?"

"_You can hear me Sam. So stop pretending that you can't."_

Ignoring the subtle warning Sam persisted in his ruse, "Please Molly, I think it would be a good idea for us to talk to each other."

"_We are talking, Sam. And you know it."_

After waiting a moment to quash some of his nervousness, Sam eventually sighed, "Well, I guess you just aren't in the mood to talk to me right now."

"_This isn't funny anymore, Sam. And I'm not laughing."_

The admonition received, Sam weighed his options carefully before uttering quietly, "Have it your way, Molly."

There was no reply from Molly and Sam's answer, neither an acknowledgement nor denial of his deceit, simply resulted in increasing the tension in the darkened motel room with the ambiguity of his response hanging like dense fog in the already thick air. Time seemed to drag on with each passing second feeling like an eternity all on its own. With no way of knowing what Molly was thinking, Sam remained stoically silent, closing his eyes and letting his body relax against the mattress. But his outwardly, relaxed appearance was yet another deception; the rest of his senses were sharply honed, ready to detect any movement or sound that Molly made.

Almost five minutes later Sam felt Molly move and the blanket that covered him was suddenly yanked away and tossed haphazardly around his feet leaving him feeling completely violated as he lay there in nothing but his boxers. Wholly exposed, his legs and arms chained spread-eagled to the four bedposts, he was once again reminded of his lowly position as Molly's prisoner, completely at the mercy of her unpredictable whims and moods.

As Sam lay vulnerable to whatever Molly's intensions were, the bed once again shifted as Molly simultaneously placed one knee down on the bed beside his hip and a hand on top of his right shoulder. Despite himself Sam gasped, her icy touch too cold to ignore. But his outburst didn't seem to deter Molly, who continued to manoeuvre her unseen body overtop of his, bringing her other knee down on the other side of Sam. Lying motionless on the bed, Sam waited nervously. Not that he had any other choice. Still tethered to the bed with a very unpredictable spirit sitting right on top of his groin, he had no viable means of recourse. He could try to buck her off but to what end? He couldn't get away from her. And trying to dislodge her might end up having less than favourable consequences. He was in a bad enough predicament as it was. There was no sense adding fuel to the fire. So instead, Sam waited in silent dread for what she was going to do.

But her next move caught him completely off-guard.

Molly slowly leaned over until her body brushed lightly against his torso. Cupping her hands around the sides of his face, she gently lifted his chin and began to cover his neck with feather-light, flippant kisses…

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Striding out through the big, sliding hospital doors, Dean wasted no time in removing the silly-looking neck brace that the nurses had insisted he wear before they'd even think about letting him leave. A lot of good the damn thing was going to do him anyway; just hindering every movement and making it next to impossible to drive. And that was something else they had told he couldn't do. And he had only agreed to it in order to get them off his back. But, along with taking his car keys, they had insisted he phone someone to come pick him up. So after a few futile minutes of protest, Dean had called the only person he could think of who would go along with his request without becoming too suspicious: Bobby. And as perplexed as he was by the bizarre phone call, Bobby had complied, even after the head nurse had insisted on speaking to him herself and grabbed the phone from Dean's hand.

"Who am I speaking too, please?" she demanded into the phone.

"Bobby Singer. Who's this?"

"Are you a friend of Aaron Laplante?"

Knowing that would be Dean's latest alias, Bobby immediately agreed, "Yeah. Known 'im since almost forever. Long time friend of the family, ya know."

"And do you mind telling me where you live?"

"Just outside of town. Why do ya want to know that?"

"Mr. Laplante needs someone to pick him up at Metro Hospital. And I need you to confirm that you're willing - and able - to do that."

"Yeah, sure," concurred Bobby half-heartedly, knowing that the phone call was nothing but a farce anyway and he really didn't have to go anywhere, regardess of what town Dean was currently in.

"Do you know where the hospital is located?"

"Yep" lied Bobby. "Lived here most of my life. Know the whole town inside-out. Just let 'im know I'll be there _real_ soon." And almost as an afterthought he added, "And tell 'im to meet me outside, will ya."

"I'd prefer you come in to get him. That way I can surrender his keys to you and know that he's been delivered into safe hands."

"Sure. However you want it, Lady."

The nurse handed the phone back to Dean, who quickly thanked Bobby and hung up, fullt intending to touch base with him later and explain everything. But right now, he just wanted to get out of this ultra-hygienic, antiseptic-smelling, godforsaken place.

Pocketing his cell phone, Dean glanced at the nurse and quipped, "I need some fresh air. I'm goin' outside for a while."

The nurse sighed; this one was just too much trouble to keep track of. She'd be glad when he was finally taken off her hands. But there was no use arguing with him, he wasn't going anywhere; his keys were tucked safely inside her lab-coat pocket…

After removing the cumbersome neck brace, Dean headed directly for his car. The sooner he got away from here the better. Pulling the bottle of pills out of his jacket pocket, he flipped the lid open, dropped three tiny white pills into the palm of his hand and spooned them into his mouth. With his bruised and injured neck and throat, the pills were extremely difficult to swallow yet somehow Dean managed. Those pills were the real reason he had been desperate enough to visit the hospital. Fresh out of pilfered prescription pads he urgently needed something to kill the pain, leaving him little choice but to choke down his aversion to any type of health-care establishment.

But Dean was pretty sure he was worse off now than when he had originally walked in. the aches and pains that lingered throughout his body had been aggravated by a constant barrage of _stand up-sit down-turn left-turn, turn-right, look-up, look-down, breathe, don't-breathe, this-might-hurt-a-bit, sorry-for-the-inconvenience_ orders from a myriad of sadistic medical personnel who were intent on subjecting him to every sort of legalized torture they could think of before they'd agree on what type of drugs to give him.

But that's what he got for being desperate enough to step foot into a hospital for treatment.

Removing the car keys from his other pocket, Dean smiled at the ease with which he had been able to retake them from the unsuspecting nurse. He opened the Impala's door and slowly eased himself into the driver's seat, leaning back gratefully in the much-needed comfort of the body-hugging padding of the familiar seat. And despite everything else, he had to admit that the body bandage they'd wrapped around his torso actually felt pretty good; way better than he could have done by himself. But then he'd also been really surprised to learn that he only had two broken ribs with almost all of the others cracked or bruised. He'd expected it to be much worse. And, like the doctor had told him, with enough rest and relaxation they'd all eventually heal on their own.

But since when had his life ever included rest and relaxation?

With a heavy sigh of exhaustion, Dean put the Impala into gear and drove off toward City Hall, thankful that it was just down the road. It was another piece of information he'd garnered during his stay at the hospital. And he hadn't even had to pull out his gun. He'd just smiled and asked the pretty little nursing assistant who has busy wrapping his torso where it was and she had been more than willing to help him out. In fact, he got the very distinct impression that she would have been willing to assist him on a lot more than just that if he'd just shown some interest. And he probably would have too - if he'd been feeling better and his reasons for being in this town hadn't been quite so urgent.

As he drove down the street, Dean slowed the car as he came upon a cemetery. Most of the headstones that stood scattered near the road were old and weathered and he immediately realized that he had managed to find Grandville Cemetery and even though he'd never actually been here before, he had heard of the place. How could he not have? This particular cemetery had a three hundred year history of a multitude of different hauntings. After briefly contemplated stopping to look for Molly's gravesite, Dean decided better of it. Not only would it be easier on his beleaguered body if he proceeded direcctly to City Hall to search through the records but it would probably be less time consuming too.

Normally he'd just send Sammy to complete the geek work while he went and wandered through the cemetery. Dean hated doing any kind of research and, with the amount of books and articles he poured through in the past week, he'd just about had his fill. From having to delve deep into the poltergeist lore in order to uncover the truth about the scientifically debunked spirit to having to consult a dusty old Latin dictionary that had probably never been removed from its place on the library shelf, Dean was really fed up of looking at books. But even if there was someone he could pawn this research off to this time, he sincerely doubted he would anyway. Because Sammy's life hinged on his ability to accurately investigate Molly's death.

And, if there was one thing Dean wasn't willing to mess around with, it was his brother's life.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

As Molly smothered his neck with her frosty kisses, Sam lay completely still; he simply didn't know what else to do. He certainly wasn't enjoying it and desperately wanted her to stop. But he had no idea on how to practically achieve that. Asking her to stop probably wasn't a very good idea and would likely just result in making her angry. He couldn't just get up and leave either seeing as he was still chained to the bed and, without a physical body, Sam had no way to push her away. All of which resulted in the only logical option being to lie still and do his best to ignore her in the hope that his lack of reaction would dissuade her enough that she'd eventually stop all on her own.

But even as Sam settled on that course of action it didn't escape him that it was an extremely lame plan.

As Sam did his best to ignore her, Molly seemed unaffected by his lack of interest as she continued to bestow soft kisses all over his face and neck. And after a few tense minutes of enduring her unwanted display of affection, Sam felt Molly body move as she pushed herself up and away from him until her weight was evenly distributed on top of his lower body. But his short-lived sense of relief came to an abrupt halt when, seconds later, her ice-cold hands descended onto his shoulders and amorously traversed down the length of his arms until she reached his hands. Wrapping her fingers around his wrists she lifted his hands up to her mouth and lavished his fingers with tender kisses.

And as difficult as it was, Sam refrained from pulling his hands away, somehow managing to keep his fingers limp and flaccid as Molly tried her best to beguile him. But it got harder with every passing minute to disregard the implications of where this was leading and Sam became more and more fearful of what would happen if she didn't stop soon. And even though he was all too painfully aware of how well it had gone in the past, Sam decided to forego his resolve to ignore her in favour of trying to reason with her. So, in an attempt to get her attention, Sam cleared his throat. But Molly either didn't hear him or chose to ignore him altogether as she persevered with her ghastly foreplay. Finally, unable to think of anything else to do, Sam yanked his hands away and forcefully placed them on the bed at his sides.

There was a brief pause before Molly queried forlornly, _"What's the matter, Sam? Don't you like me?"_

Deciding against continuing with the pretense that he still couldn't hear her, Sam stammered uneasily, "Of, of course, I like you Molly. It's…it's just...it's just that…"

"_It's just what, Sam?"_ Molly interrupted, her irritation evident in her tone.

"It's just that…well…I don't...I don't really know to put this, Molly."

"_How to put what, Sam?"_

"That…that…well, I'm not sure…it's not that…I don't want to…I'm afraid this might hurt your feelings, Molly," Sam rambled nervously as he racked his brain to come up with some sort of plausible excuse that wouldn't totally offend her.

"_Be careful Sam," _warned Molly, _"I doubt you really want to upset me."_

"No. No, Molly, I don't," sputtered Sam quickly, "It's just that…well, this is just a little…" he sighed before blurting out, "I'm just a little embarrassed by all this, Molly."

"_You're_ _Embarrassed?"_ Molly repeated, slightly flabbergasted. Then, with a hint of amusement, she asked, _"Oh Sam, you're not shy are you?"_

Relieved that a disastrous situation had been averted, at least for the moment, Sam opted to go along with her assessment. "Yeah, Molly. That's it. You guessed it. I'm shy."

"_What do you possibly have to be shy about Sam?"_ Molly purred as she appreciatively caressed his chest and upper torso with her invisible hands.

"Molly! Stop!" Sam beseeched as he tried to move away from her. "Please don't do this!"

"_Oh Sam! Don't be so silly. I'm not going to hurt you."_

"I don't care, Molly. I don't want to do this. And I'd really prefer it if you'd just stop!"

"_You have nothing to_ _worry about Sam. Just lie back, relax. I promise I'll take good care of you."_

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Dean re-read the six-month-old article that he had uncovered in the city archives, Written as a commemorative in the unsolved disappearance of Maureen Strickland, a twenty-one year old local girl who had vanished while on a camping expedition with her boyfriend. All initial searches of the area where she had last been seen had been unsuccessful in uncovering any trace of the young woman and, three years later, she was still listed as a missing person. This latest article had been written at the request of the local police with backing of the girl's distraught parents in an attempt to revive the old, almost forgotten case to see if anyone could provide any new information as to her whereabouts seeing as they still had no idea what had become of the young woman.

But Dean knew.

Maureen Strickland was dead.

And his worst fears had been realized. There was no grave. And no body to salt and burn.

Leaving him with no way to destroy the disruptive spirit.


	15. Chapter 15

_Sorry for the length of time it took me to update. RL has been crazy and then to top it off, I must have re-written this chapter almost 1,000 times. Hope it's okay and Ill try not to take so long to update in the future._

* * *

Staring dumbfounded at the computer screen, Dean blinked as the color picture of Molly blurred before his eyes. An attractive girl with long, dark auburn hair, light green eyes and a smile that completely lit up her face, she had been someone that Dean might actually have made a pass at under different circumstances. But the sad reality remained that, while attractive in life, she no longer resembled anything close to that smiling photographic image.

Dead for over three years now, Molly had undoubtedly changed, her lingering soul growing more confused and restless with the passage of time. And, although she had been a fun-loving, gentle young woman during her lifetime, her spirit had morphed into something else altogether: a violent and unstable entity created by the manner and circumstance of her death. For three years she had evolved, her undead desires and phobias augmenting until, for some unknown reason, she had found and latched onto Sam. And now she wanted from him what she couldn't have in life.

But the big difference was that, in death, she could finally achieve it.

And with no body to salt and burn, Dean knew of nothing else that could stop a deadly poltergeist. Finding a way to kill her was going to be an uphill battle to be sure but that didn't mean he was just going to give up; there was no way in Hell he was just going to stand aside and let of Molly Strickland's spirit take his brother. But he was going to have to work fast before she succeeded in causing any sort of irreversible harm to Sam.

Because, come Hell or high water, he was going to destroy the evil bitch once and for all.

And the only logical place to start was by talking to her parents.

Needing to change clothes beforehand, Dean stopped at a gas station on his way to the Stricklands and grabbed his suit out of the trunk, once again thankful for his brother's insight in suggesting they leave their working outfits in the car just in case they were ever needed in an emergency. Walking over to the washroom at the side of the building he spotted a sign on the washroom door stating that the key had to be obtained from the office. Rolling his eyes, Dean was really disinclined to try that again, especially after the last gas station incident but after purveying the building's shabby exterior, He doubted the door would be that hard to bust open anyway.

A quick second later, Dean had successfully picked the lock and slipped inside to wash up and change. As he paused to check his reflection in the dingy mirror, he couldn't help but notice that he'd looked lots better. His altercations with Molly had combined with the lack of sleep to give his eyes a hollow, sunken appearance and the guilt of having left Sammy behind and alone four states away in Connecticut also played out on his face. But with no way to change it and even less time to stand around and fret about it, Dean pushed the unsettling thoughts to the dark recesses of his mind and headed back to his car.

After pulling the car to a stop at the curb in front of the Strickland's house, Dean readjusted his shirt collar in an attempt to conceal the bruises on his neck. He got out of the Impala, bounded up the front stairs and knocked loudly on the door. When a rather tired-looking, middle-aged woman answered the door, Dean flashed both a quick smile and his fake FBI badge before asking the woman if she was Maureen Strickland's mother. The woman nodded slowly and Dean asked if he could come in and talk to her about her daughter's disappearance. Making his way into the foyer, he was met by a man who casually introduced himself as Robert Strickland, Molly's father and led him into the living room.

Dean perched himself on the edge of an over-stuffed chair directly opposite Molly's parents who sat side by side on the couch, stating that he didn't require much of their time but had a few questions that he needed to ask. Before he could begin Molly's father inquired as to what had happened that would suddenly interest the Feds when the local police hadn't been that concerned about his daughter's disappearance from the beginning.

"Well, it's still an open case," said Dean, easily side-stepping the issue, "And un…there've been a few developments that recently brought it to our attention."

"Like what?" asked Mr. Strickland.

Dean cleared his throat before once again skirting the question. "Nothing I'm at liberty to talk about right now."

"Molly must have finally called!" proclaimed her mother joyfully as she grabbed her husband's arm.

"Pardon me?" rejoined Dean, unsure of what he had just heard.

"Our daughter. Molly," explained her mother hopefully. "We've been waiting for three years for her to call and let us know she's okay. She called, didn't she?"

"Uhh…No, Ma'am. We haven't had a phone call from your daughter."

"Was it the kidnappers who called?" injected the father, seemingly caught up in his wife's enthusiasm. "Because we have some money set aside…"

"Kidnappers?" Dean frowned.

"Yes, the people who abducted her." expounded her mother. "What do they want?."

Glancing between the two older people, Dean asked hesitantly, "You think your daughter was kidnapped? And they've just been holding her for the past three years?"

"Well…what other explanation could there be?" replied her soft-witted mother.

Dean gulped; Molly's parents were definitely a little out of touch with reality. "It, um, it never occurred to you that maybe she…"

"Left on her own accord?" interrupted Mr. Strickland.

"Oh, Molly would never have done that," stated Mrs. Strickland.

"No, I'm sure she wouldn't have," Dean stated, more to himself than anything. "but you can't think of any other reason why Molly might not have come home?"

"Like what?" her mother asked, completely perplexed at his question.

Dean didn't know what to say. He already knew Molly was dead but apparently her mother and father hadn't ever considered that possibility, not even with the passage of over three and a half years.

Deciding to redirect the conversation, Dean inquired, "Was your daughter suffering from any type of illness at the time she went missing?"

Wrinkling her brow, Molly's mother replied, "Oh, no. Molly was in perfect health."

"Okay…well…that's good to know," answered Dean with a nervous grin, more than a little upset to learn that there was no clear reason to confirm why she might have turned into a poltergeist upon her death.

"What does her health have to do with her disappearance?" asked Molly's father.

Changing the topic yet again Dean ventured, "Do you have any idea where she was abducted from?"

"Willow's Gas Station," answered her father, "On the outskirts of town."

"Were there any witnesses?" probed Dean hopefully.

"Unfortunately no one admitted to seeing anything," replied Mr. Strickland, shaking his head sadly. "But you know how it is. No one pays too that much attention to what's going on around them unless it affects them."

"It was only after Chris finished paying for the gas that he noticed Molly was gone and figured out what must have happened. He's the one who told the police she must have been kidnapped." added Molly's mother.

"Chris…?" Dean asked, just a little confused.

"Her boyfriend. At the time," replied Mrs. Strickland. "But you must have read all about him in the police report."

"Yeeahh, ," confirmed Dean. "But they wrote him down as Mr…."

"Driscoll," finished Molly's father.

"That's right. Chris Driscoll. Now I remember," Dean stated with a smile.

"But they aren't going out anymore," continued Mrs. Strickland. "Chris found someone else after Molly disappeared."

Dean nodded slowly, glancing back and forth between Molly's parents, wondering if they had any idea how little sense their rationalizations made. It was more than obvious that Molly hadn't been abducted from the gas station. In fact, she probably hadn't even been there. Chris was just using the gas station as an alibi. Whatever happened to Molly had occurred somewhere else altogether. And Dean was willing to bet that whatever had caused her death, the boyfriend knew more about it than he had divulged.

The trick was getting him to admit it.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Placing her hands on Sam's bare shoulders, Molly slid them slowly down his chest and over his injured torso, lingering momentarily at his waist before slowly retracing her sordid journey backwards. But as she caressed his body, her attention was drawn to a stab wound that was, for some unknown reason, once again oozing blood. She paused, inserting her finger in the warm scarlet liquid only to have it instantly freeze beneath her icy touch. Intrigued, Molly pressed down on the wound, drawing fresh blood to the surface and, after twirling her index finger in the dark red fluid, she smeared it eerily across Sam's pallid, clammy skin.

Seeking out another of the stab wounds, Molly continued to poke and prod Sam's abused body, repeating her macabre performance over again and over again until she had finger-painted sticky, scarlet swirls all over his midriff. The newfound torture pushed Sam's pain threshold to the limit and he tried to block out the physical agony by thinking of something – anything - else that would separate his mind from his tormented body. But, like a cornered animal, his mind would only focus on his own survival and his thoughts turned his most feasible means of escape:

Dean.

_Where the hell was his brother? And why hadn't he killed her already?_

But with no way to answer his own questions, Sam began to worry that something might have happened to Dean. Maybe he had been hurt worse than Sam had originally thought during his altercations with Molly and he had never even made it to Michigan, succumbing to his injuries somewhere along the way. Maybe he'd been in a car accident and was lying unconscious in a ditch, needing someone to rescue him.

Or, maybe he was dead.

After shaking his head to vanquish his thoughts, Sam was immediately jolted back to his own less-than-pleasant reality. The excruciating pain of Molly's ongoing torture ripped through his body, coupling with the remnants of his distressful musings about his brother and, debilitated by both, he screamed out angrily:

"For Chrissakes Molly! Enough already!"

Ignoring his outburst, Molly moved her hand over to another wound, pressing down on it with enough force to split it open. Not simply content to let the blood seep out on its own this time she wriggled her finger inside the narrow fissure causing Sam to groan in agony. As she scraped her fingernail against his subcutaneous flesh, he threw his head backwards into the pillow and gritted his teeth in defiance of the pain and although he desperately wanted to beg her to stop, he was unwilling to give her the satisfaction of his defeat.

When Molly finally did withdraw her finger, a torrent of blood gushed out of the wound, spilling across Sam's chest and sliding down the side of his body before soaking into the bed linen beneath him. Sam's breathing came in shallow and laborious gasps now, his tolerance pushed to the limit. But Molly remained seemingly oblivious to his plight as she slathered her hand in the pool of blood that lay on his chest and swabbing it in grotesque patterns all over his skin.

Speech all but impossible, Sam somehow managed to implore almost inaudibly, "Molly…Please."

Amazingly Molly paused, stilling her hand where it sat on Sam's chest, the frigidity of her penetrating into his skin and providing a momentary sense of relief before the coldness became too hard to bear. Shifted his body back and forth, Sam attempted to get her to remove her hand without verbalizing. And, somehow it worked; Molly slowly lifted her hand off his chest and, for a few moments, simply sat very still on top of him.

But Sam barely had enough time to catch his breath when Molly suddenly leaned down overtop of him, the weight of her body crushing against his beleaguered torso. She seized his head in her hands, gripping both sides of his head tightly and then lowered her icy lips onto his. Sam instinctively spun his head sideways to avoid the frosty kiss but Molly yanked heavily on his hair and dragged his head back to face her. He tried, without success, to buck her off; too exhausted to be able to oust her from her perch on his groin.

Instinctively reaching up to grab her by the shoulders, Sam tried again to pull her away. But as his hands slipped right through the air where, by all logic, Molly's body should have been and his arms merely crisscrossed over each other as they landed back on top of his body. Immediately swinging his arms back across his body, Sam uncrossing both his arms and the chains that held them, hoping that the flinging chains, although invisible to him, would somehow be able to dispel the amorous spirit. Inexplicably Molly did move - just before the chains crossed. For a moment there was complete silence in the room, the only sound coming from Sam's labored breathing.

"_Are you mad at me, Sam?"_

Unable to hold it back, Sam let out a giant guffaw.

"_Why are you laughing at me?" _Molly asked, hurt obvious in her tone.

But Sam didn't answer; besides being exhausted, her question was just plain ridiculous. And once again the room grew deathly quiet for a few minutes and Sam began to worry what effect his silence was having on the volatile spirit. But soon the stillness was broken when Molly asked a seemingly innocent question.

"_Are you mad at me, Sam?"_

Sam snorted; again with the silly questions. Nor could he keep the sarcasm out of his voice when he replied, "No, Molly. Why would I possibly be mad at you?"

Either not catching his cynicism or ignoring it, Molly answered, _"I don't know, Sam. But I think you are."_

Filled with anger at her idiocy, Sam spat, "Look at me, Molly! Look what you've done to me!"

Again there was a brief silence as Sam imagined that Molly was looking over her handiwork.

"_I didn't mean to hurt you."_

Sounding more like his brother than himself, Sam replied sarcastically, "Really? Then what exactly did you think you were doing?"

"_I don't know," _responded Molly in a hushed voice.

"Well, I'll tell you what you were doing," Sam snarled, "You were torturing me! Just like you've been doing for the past few days!"

"_I'm sorry."_

"You're sorry?" Sam reiterated in disbelief.

"_I… just get carried away sometimes, Sam. I…I don't understand it. I never used to be like that."_

Molly's admission made Sam stop and think, bringing him back to the sad truth of the whole situation; she had once been human. A flesh and blood person who had loved and was loved. She had been someone's daughter. Maybe sister. A Friend. And, quite possibly, a lover. But her death had changed that. It had turned her into a monster, releasing all kinds of inhuman tendencies and making her evil and wicked. Until there was nothing left of her human personality.

But…was there?

Maybe there was something left behind of the person Molly used to be. Her sorrowful confession might just be evidence of that and Sam wondered if it might be possible to reach deep inside her being and unlock that person before she disappeared forever. But he couldn't do it with anger and resentment; he needed to make her understand.

He needed to tell her the truth.

"Molly," Sam began quietly, "It's…it's okay. I know it's not really your fault. Sometimes things happen to change people."

"_What do you mean by that?"_

"Life doesn't always go as planned, Molly. And people have to…have to adjust."

"_Adjust to what?"_

"To whatever's happened to them."

There was a short pause before Molly asked, _"Have you adjusted Sam?"_

"I'm…I'm trying to Molly. But it's hard. Because I don't know what you want from me."

Again there was a pause before Molly answered matter-of-factly, "_I want you to love me, Sam."_


	16. Chapter 16

Studying the young man through the windshield of the Impala Dean continually glanced down at the picture that Molly's parents had given him until there was no doubt in his mind. That guy was definitely Chris Driscoll. And although he looked a few years older than the image in the photograph, he still looked pretty much the same. Even down to the crappy hairstyle.

And there was something vaguely familiar about him too. At first, Dean couldn't quite put his finger on what it was but then it dawned on him; the guy looked an awful lot like Sam. Granted, his hair was a little lighter in color but the haircut was similar, parted the same way down the middle and hanging down to his shirt collar. He was lanky, not quite as muscular as Sam but their height and body-build were comparable. In fact, judging by appearance alone, they could almost have been related.

It was no wonder than Molly had latched onto his brother.

And although Dean had an overwhelming urge to get out, tackle the guy to the ground right now and force him to tell him what really happened to Molly, he knew it was far too public a place to confront him. If he stood any chance of getting the kid to talk, he really needed to get him alone. The less witnesses the better. Especially when Dean figured it was going to take an extra bit of persuasion to extract the truth from him. The guy had simply been lying about it for too long and had probably come to believe his invented untruths himself. He wasn't going to just spill his guts to the next stranger that came along. So Dean remained in the car, simply watching. He'd wait until Chris Driscoll moved off to someplace more private. Dean didn't care where it was, as long as it was further removed from the steady stream of prying eyes that filled the park.

And it didn't take long; Chris soon distanced himself from the bubble-headed bleach-blonde he had been talking too, standing up and leaving her with a quick kiss on the cheek and an equally spry smile. His spirits buoyed by the minute physical contact, the boy wandered blissfully off through the park toward a large cluster of trees just visible on the horizon. Dean watched him go, purposely staying in the Impala until Chris was over halfway to the small woods, not wanting to draw any undo attention to the fact that he was actually following the young man.

Carefully keeping Chris in his sight, Dean shadowed his quarry all the while maintaining an air of nonchalance as he trailed unhurriedly behind him. It wasn't until the gravel path became obliterated by the surrounding vegetation that Dean made his move. In an instant he had pulled alongside Chris Driscoll before momentarily walking ahead of him to ensure that the path ahead was clear of other people. Satisfied that no one else was around, Dean turned, stopping dead in his tracks in the middle of the path.

As Chris approached, Dean forced a smile onto his face. "Nice day, huh?" he asked casually.

But Chris was either ignoring him or not paying attention. When he came up to where Dean was standing, the young man instinctively moved to go around him. But Dean stepped sideways, blocking his path yet again.

"'Cuse me, Buddy," Chris requested absently.

"Oh, not at all," responded Dean with a grin, stepping aside as if to let the younger male pass. "My mistake." But just as Chris went to walk around him, Dean's hand shot out, landing open-handed on the middle of Chris' chest, and he once again stepped directly in front of him.

Startled by the suddenness of his movements Chris stared silently at Dean.

Not wasting any time, Dean requested firmly, "Tell me what you know about Molly Strickland."

Chris winced. "Molly Strickland?" he reiterated, furrowing his brow as he renewed his efforts to get around Dean. "I never heard of her."

"Look," replied Dean, moving sideways to barricade his path yet again. "I'm on a bit of a timetable here. And I don't feel much like playing games. So it'd really help if you just stop lying to me and tell me what you know."

"I told you. I don't know the chick. And I don't know you either."

"Well, I know you. And I know that you were with Molly Strickland when she died. So let's just cut the crap and you tell me what happened. Okay?"

"Molly's dead?" reiterated Chris in mock surprise. "I don't believe you."

Dean sighed. Just a moment ago the idiot wasn't even willing to admit that he knew Molly. Now, at the mention of her death, he had inexplicably forgotten that reluctance and tried to pretend like he didn't know she was dead already. And given the circumstances of his visit, Dean found his evasiveness a little hard to take.

Dean glared directly into Chris' eyes, the seriousness of his position more than evident in their hazel depths. "I warned you Chris, I'm not playing games. So just be straight with me and tell me what you did to her."

"How do you know my name?" the taller man inquired, totally ignoring the remark about doing something to his former girlfriend.

"Same way I know Molly's dead. I just need to know how – and where - it happened."

"Like I'd know, Man" Chris shrugged. "She was alive when I saw her last. She just took off or somethin'. Disappeared. And I haven't seen her since. That's all I know. God's honest truth."

"Ya see Chris, I find that a little hard to believe because I know you were with Molly when she died."

Chris stared down at Dean, his gaze faltering for a second before he could regain his composure. Years of lies and deceit had given him a pretty good edge and he didn't intend to lose it now. Having held up under intense police interrogation, the guy in front of him was nothing. Besides, Chris had a good couple of inches on the guy and he mistakenly viewed that as an advantage.

"Look Bud," Chris declared, taking hold of Dean's hand still planted firmly on his chest and attempting to remove it, "I don't know where you're getting your information, but I've already told you everything that I know. I have no idea where Molly is or what happened to her."

"Is that a fact?" retorted Dean as he spun his hand around, seizing Chris' wrist and quickly twisting it sideways. As he whipped Chris' arm around, Dean spun Chris around with it and successfully pinned the younger man's arm tightly against his back. Locking the arm in place, Dean pushed it upwards to increase the young man's discomfort and let him know that he wasn't fooling around. Taking a step closer so that he was right behind him, Dean hissed in his ear, "I think you're lying. And I don't like liars."

"Everyone else thought I was lying too, at first," countered Chris, struggling to break free, "But they all eventually caved. They came to realize I didn't know anything more than what I had been telling them all along."

"See, that's where we have a little problem." Dean replied. "Because I don't 'cave'. I work on someone until I get the truth."

Hearing the chattering sounds of people coming toward them Dean paused and looked around. A second later he pushed Chris forcefully ahead of him and into the tenuous seclusion of the small woods. They walked about 20 feet off the path before Dean forcefully slammed Chris face-first into the trunk of a tree. Releasing his arm and spinning him around none too gently, Dean grabbed hold of the taller man's shirt.

"Now, tell me what happened to Molly. Did you kill her?"

"_No!_" spit Chris adamantly.

"Then you got no reason not to tell me how she died."

"Except maybe that I. Don't. Know," affirmed Chris vehemently.

Glaring down at Dean Chris had had enough. Reaching out without warning he placed both hands on Dean's shoulders and attempted to push him away. But Dean was holding tightly to the young man's shirt and, as he stumbled backwards, Dean took a surprised Chris along with him.

Regaining his footing almost immediately, Dean grew furious. His aching body, coupled with a lack of sleep and urgent need to get to the bottom of this situation had derived him of most of his patience. Being pushed backwards was simply the last straw. He also wanted to convey to Chris, under no uncertain terms, just how determined he was to get to the truth. And, unlike the authorities, who had no proof to convince them that Molly was dead, Dean knew by the presence of the poltergeist that was busy tormenting his brother as they stood around wasting precious time that she was. He just had to find out where her body was so he could destroy her in time to save Sam.

Fuelled by his anger and fatigue, Dean whirled around, dragging a reluctant Chris Driscoll to the ground as effortlessly as if he was nothing more than a ragdoll and straddled his prone body. Chris thumped to the ground, knocking his head against the hardened dirt and immediately lost consciousness.

Breathing heavily Dean looked down with regret at his unconscious opponent.

This wasn't exactly going as planned.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Molly's words echoed eerily in Sam's head.

_I want you to love me_…

Gulping quietly, Sam was afraid to admit that he had suspected as much for a very long time. From the very first minute that Molly had first made her presence known in fact. By placing the poem on his computer. _That_ classic love poem. The one that had a much darker undertone then most people cared to analyse. But the truth was evident for anyone who cared to look and was what had bothered Sam from the get-go.

Because Sam Winchester knew more than a little about life after death.

The last line of the poem – _I shall but love thee better after death_ – gave off an ominous vibe. And although most literary scholars believed the line suggested that the poet's love was eternal and everlasting, Sam knew it actually spoke of something much more menacing. And that was the reason Molly had chosen that poem. She not only believed that the poem reflected her own thoughts but had actually misconstrued them as being her words. And, in ending the poem like that, she was not speaking about her own death; but of Sam's.

She was letting him know that she could love him so much better _after_ he was dead.

And that thought sent chills down Sam's spine. Because what was it that they said about unrequited love? Or a woman scorned?

Because, the way things were going, that's how she was ultimately going to orchestrate his death. Sure, she'd try to get him to go by his own volition but, if that failed, Sam doubted she had any qualms about aiding him to his demise.

And, as horrible as it all sounded, everything made sense now. Why she had gotten rid of Dean. Why she restrained him in chains. And even the unbearable torture. She was isolating and immobilizing him. Trying to make Sam believe that she was the only one in his life. That she alone cared for him. To make him willing to die for her.

And if that didn't succeed, she'd force the issue. Make him blurt out his love for her under the duress of torture. And then, and only then, she'd be free to kill him.

And fending off a love-struck poltergeist hell-bent on procuring his demise was probably something he was ill-equipped to handle. But still, Sam knew he had to try. And with any luck maybe he'd be able to hold her off from completing her grizzly task until Dean had the chance to kill her. Which, with any luck, he'd get around to doing _very, very _soon.

Sam was jolted from his reverie by the soft sound of Molly's voice. _"Did you hear me, Sam?"_

Gulping down his anxiety, Sam replied, "Yes, I heard you, Molly."

"_Do you love me too, Sam."_

Sam fell silent; what could he possibly say?

After a brief moment Molly asked quietly, _"You don't, do you Sam?"_

Sam cleared his throat. "It's complicated Molly."

With nothing but silence to meet his last comment, Sam feared that he had inadvertently set Molly off again and he waited with bated breath for her rage to once again manifest itself. And that would be the beginning of the end. But everything remained unusually quiet until he felt her cold hand slowly began to caress his arm.

"_I can't go alone, Sam."_

Had Molly just made a backhanded admission that she knew she was dead?

"_Say you'll come with me."_

Again Sam didn't answer.

"_Don't you want to Sam?"_

"I can't Molly."

"_But if we go together, we won't ever have to be alone."_

That's when it hit him.

And Sam knew exactly how Molly had died.


	17. Chapter 17

Turning the Impala onto a small dirt road that actually resembled more of a beaten-down cow path than a real road, Dean glanced over at his comatose passenger. But then again, maybe passenger wasn't quite the right word seeing as he _was_ handcuffed to the seat, making Chris Driscoll more of a prisoner than a passenger.

But regardless of the terminology, Dean had done nothing less than what he'd needed to do to get to the bottom of what happened to Molly. He'd had to. In order to stop her from killing his brother.

But as the minutes ticked by, Dean was having a hard time believing that Chris was still out cold. He hadn't hit the ground that hard and, by rights, shouldn't have been out for more than a few minutes. But, then again, maybe there was something to the old adage 'the bigger they are, the harder they fall'.

Still, half an hour seemed a little like overkill.

Throwing the Impala into 'park' before shifting carefully in his seat to alleviate some of his own discomfort, Dean realized that he hadn't done himself any favors by carrying Chris's limp body across the park. The dull throbbing that had been present in his ribcage that morning had been replaced by a searing pain that was further exacerbated with every breath he took. But, once again, he'd had little choice, wasting over five precious minutes waiting in the darkened undergrowth for Chris to come to before deciding it would be better to take him somewhere more private.

At first Dean had simply ignored people's curious stares as he trudged slowly through the park with Chris slung haphazardly over his shoulders. But as the questioning glances ensued Dean finally began mumbling something about people being unable to handle their booze. Still, a few raised eyebrows followed his progression through the park but he eventually managed to get to the car more or less unchallenged, even receiving some much-needed help from a passerby getting Chris settled into the front seat of the Impala.

And as soon as the Good Samaritan had left, Dean had taken a pair of handcuffs from the glove-compartment and, after securing one of the cuffs around Chris' right wrist, he'd locked the other one around the track that tethered the passenger seat to the floor. With his passenger still out cold but secure in the front seat, Dean shut the passenger door and walked around the car, slipping gingerly into the driver's seat before driving to the outskirts of town. He drove quickly, out towards the gas station where Chris claimed to have last seen Molly alive.

Not that Dean believed Chris' story even for a second, but it was as good a place to start his interrogation as any; especially seeing as he was going to have to wait for Chris to regain consciousness before he could get to the truth about what the young man had done with Molly's body. Dean just hoped that wherever it was, it wasn't hidden too far away. Because he really needed to torch her remains as soon as humanly possible.

About a quarter mile past the gas station Dean discovered the dirt road and figured it was as good a place as any to sit and wait. He backed the car off the highway until the Impala was pretty much concealed from view by the over-hanging trees. He had just finished sliding the gearshift into park and repositioning his aching body when there was a slight stirring in the seat beside him.

As Chris's eyes slowly fluttered open, Dean grinned, "Hey Sleepy Beauty. Have a good sleep?"

"What the…?" responded Chris, immediately trying to lift his right arm up to his face, only to have it halted by the rigidity of the handcuffs.

As his captive tried in vain to work himself free, Dean clarified it for him. "Just a little insurance that we'll get to finish our conversation."

"What conversation?" asked Chris slightly perplexed as he turning to look at him.

"You remember, Chris. The conversation we were having about Molly. And you were just about to tell me what you did with her body when you so inconveniently passed out."

Chris looked angrily at Dean. "I already told you Man. Last time I saw Molly, she was alive. If she really _is_ dead, I don't know anything about that."

"See, that's where we have our first little problem," intersected Dean. "You just keep sayin' that. And I keep not believing you. But really Chris, sooner or later you _are_ gonna get around to tellin' me the truth. I just hope for your sake, it's a little sooner than later."

"I _have_ been tellin' you the truth. Ya gotta believe me. I don't know anything about Molly being dead."

"See, that's another little problem. Surely by now, you've figured out that I know you're lyin'. But you just keep on doing it for some reason. Which makes me wonder just how much persuasion it's gonna take to get you to come clean."

"Persuasion?" asked an obviously distressed Chris, "Whaddya mean by…persuasion?"

"This… for starters" replied Dean, spinning rapidly in his seat and clamping his left hand around Chris' neck before the boy even had a chance to react.

Dean's grip slowly tightened and, in desperation, Chris flung out with his free hand, clumsily trying to backhand his aggressor. But Dean had anticipated his move and grabbed hold of his arm before slowly forcing it back down onto the seat beside him. The stranglehold in which Dean had placed him had pretty much cut off his air supply and as soon as Dean released Chris' hand, the young man reached up to his own neck, trying frantically to pull Dean's hand away.

But Dean just smiled a slow, easy smile. The game was about to come to an abrupt end.

A moment late the hard steel barrel of Dean's gun thrust firmly into Chris' side.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Okay. Maybe _that_ was a bit of an overstatement.

Maybe Sam didn't know _exactly_ how Molly had died.

Because he really didn't know the exact manner of her death.

But he _did_ know the circumstances that surrounded it.

And he also knew that somehow or another, something had gone terribly wrong with the way her death had played out, and the events that she had anticipated would follow along with it had not materialized. Thus turning her into a poltergeist. And making her lingering spirit vengeful and vindictive.

And, most probably, it also explained why she had latched onto him.

Because Molly had never intended to die alone. She had expected someone else to go with her. But for some reason that had not happened and now she needed someone new to fulfill that role before she'd willingly move along.

Which was why she had recruited Sam.

And knowing that his death was a certainty, Sam had to do everything in his power to prevent it. He had to convince Molly that what she wanted from him simply wasn't right. That although she had died, no one else had to.

He had to make her remember what had transpired right before she died.

It was the only way he might be able to save himself.

"Molly…"

"_Shhhh, Sam. It's time to go."_

"Go, Molly? Where are we going?"

"_You know Sam. You agreed it's the right thing to do. You know where we're going. And why."_

"No Molly. No I don't. Because it wasn't me. It was someone else"

"_Don't be silly, Sam. It had to be you. It's always been you."_

"No Molly. That's not the way it was. I want you to think really hard. And tell me who it really was. Who betrayed you!"

"_There was no betrayal Sam! Unless…that's what you're planning!"_

"Think Molly! I know you can remember! Just try!"

But Molly didn't answer. Instead she began pounding furiously on Sam's chest, striking him so hard that every rip, tear and slash in his body burst open again, blood seeping from the wounds. Sam struggled to catch his breath, inhaling deeply between blows and trying to utter something that would make her stop. But the blows came too fast, too hard and too intensely. He couldn't talk and he couldn't defend himself; his arms and legs still tied tightly in stretched-out shackles.

Sam was afraid that unless Molly stopped striking him soon, the severity of the beating would be enough to finally end his life. The prolonged torture, the loss of blood and now the severe blows to his already weakened body would finally be too much for him to overcome. But still Sam tried to fight back, thrashing his head back and forth as he fought to find his voice. But sound eluded him and the horrible pounding continued until Sam's heart began to beat very erratically.

She was killing him.

And it was a horrible way to die.

Tortured and defenseless.

Not at all as Sam had ever envisioned it would be.

Then, just as rapidly as the beating had started, Molly paused. Her hands splayed out on his shoulders and she lowered her head to his chest. Sam felt her body heaving against his as frigid tears splashed onto his body where they lingering agonizingly until they thawed and melted on his lukewarm skin. Molly's weight across his chest further hindered his ability to breathe and Sam grappled to draw in enough air to survive. But just as he thought he was about to suffocate, Molly abruptly sat up.

"_Chris!"_

"Was that…was that his name, Molly?" Sam rasped between breaths.

"_He said…he said he loved me...We were going to get married…But my parents didn't approve…They said I should go to college... Get an education…Meet someone else…Someone better…"_

"Is that why…" Sam strained to ask, "Is that why you formed a…"

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"…_a lover's pact?"_ demanded Dean hotly. _"The_ _two of you were going to kill yourselves?"_

"It…it was Molly's idea. I just went along with it," stammered Chris uncomfortably. "B..b..but…I…I didn't really think she'd go through with it."

"But she did, didn't she?" spat Dean angrily. "She killed herself."

"Yeah," admitted Chris reluctantly.

"And you chickened out?"

Chris nodded.

"You just stood by and let Molly kill herself?" shot Dean irately, his anger and distaste barely contained.

"I…I couldn't talk her out of it."

"Just how hard did you _really_ try, Chris?"

Chris gulped, his eyes filling with tears at the long-forgotten memory. "She was so sure that's what she wanted. That it was our only hope to stay together. We walked to the edge and looked at each other. She jumped. And I let her hand slip out of mine…"

Dean glared at Chris, not really convinced that he was actually sorry but finally learning what had brought the young woman to her demise.

But in the next instant Dean reached out and, with as much force as he could muster within the cramped quarters of the car, he punched Chris squarely in the jaw.


	18. Chapter 18

"What the hell was that for?" Chris enquired indignantly as he rubbed his bruised jaw.

"If there's one thing I hate more than a liar," spat Dean, "It's a coward!"

"A coward?" repeated Chris. "Is that what you think I am?"

"To the nth degree, Buddy! I've always known humans can be completely despicable, but you…you take the cake!"

"Why? Because I didn't want to die? Because I decided not to jump with Molly?"

"Because you just let the poor girl plunge to her death without even trying to stop her, you moron! I'll bet that you didn't even bother to tell her the truth! That you neglected to mention that you had absolutely no intention of jumping with her."

"But …I asked her if she was sure," contested Chris weakly. "And if she really believed that dying was the only way to get what she wanted."

"What she wanted was to be with you, you dickhead! She wanted to be with you forever! Not dead and on her own!"

"Yeah, well, that's all just a bunch of hogwash. When you're dead, you're dead. There's no such thing as an afterlife."

"Really?" challenged Dean, "You honestly believe that?"

Dean had to resist the urge to reach out and hit him again. The audacity of the stupid kid! Trying to absolve himself of any blame! All Dean really wanted to do was pummel him; let out some of his own pent-up frustration and maybe knock some kind of sense and compassion into Chris in the process, seeing as he seemed to be totally lacking in both.

Of course, the kid had had over three years to rationalize away his guilt.

Taking a deep breath, Dean decided to switch gears and get down to what really mattered. "Where'd it happen?"

"Where'd what happen?" asked a confused Chris.

Rolling his eyes, Dean struggled to remain calm. Because as well as being devoid of a conscience and any normal sense of responsibility, Chris also seemed to lack an attention span.

"Where did Molly die?" demanded Dean irately. "What happened to her body?"

"I…I don't remember," stammered Chris nervously.

"Then you better think really hard," replied Dean, raising the gun and slowly cocking the trigger.

"Umm… it was in some park in Ohio," spat Chris rapidly.

"Some park in Ohio? That's all you got?"

"Yeah. But I don't remember the name of the place."

"Think a little bit harder." Dean ordered, "Because you've pretty much exhausted all my patience. And, if you haven't already guessed, that's not a good thing."

"But…but...it was such a long time ago!" whined Chris.

After taking a long, deep breath Dean began counted harshly, _"One…Two…"_ his tone leaving no question as to the depth of his sincerity.

"Okay, okay," relented Chris. "It was in Cuyahoga National Park. She jumped off the cliff and fell into the river. I…I guess her body must still be there but I never saw it. She never resurfaced"

Taking a second to absorb this new bit of information, Dean groaned almost inaudibly, "Not the river."

His worst fears realized, Dean slammed his fist into the dashboard, barely noticing the pain it caused. He had hoped that Molly had simply jumped off a cliff and landed in a canyon or onto a lower outcropping somewhere so that he'd still be able to locate her remains and torch them. But having jumped into the river complicated things. Her body wouldn't have remained anywhere near where she had jumped but would have drifted in the water, ending up anywhere along the river's path. It would have floated with the current until it became wedged under a rock or been deposited in any number of nooks and crannies along the long, winding riverbed. After three years it would be next to impossible to locate her remains.

But at least he finally understood how Molly's spirit had attached itself to his brother.

Their last job had taken them to Brecksville, Ohio, a city located on the Cuyahoga River just outside of Cleveland. And, while they had been in Brecksville, they had driven across the river countless times tracking down a wendigo that had been terrorizing the nearby countryside. Molly's spirit had been trapped in that river, travelling freely up and down its length until it was beckoned by Sam's mojo. And because Molly's spirit hadn't turned into an ordinary ghost but had become a poltergeist she hadn't been tied to the riverbed and had been able jump into the Impala as they drove over the Cuyahoga River.

But knowing how she had managed to find them gave Dean little comfort. It didn't tell him how to destroy her now that salting and burning her remains was out of the question.

He just couldn't catch a break.

And he had no way to save Sammy.

Not wasting any more time, Dean pocketed the gun before throwing the Impala into gear and tearing off down the highway leaving a cloud of flying dust in his wake.

Using his free arm to brace himself against the dashboard, Chris glanced back at the rapidly fading lights of Grandville before turning to Dean and asking, "Wh…where are you going in such a hurry?"

"There's someplace I gotta be," was all Dean bothered to say.

"Well, uhh…would you mind just letting me out before you go? I can just make my own way home."

Shooting him a menacing glance Dean didn't respond, instead pushing down a bit harder on the gas pedal which caused the Impala to lurch forward as it sped up.

"Listen Man," Chris once again attempted to reason with his captor, "I…I already told you everything I know. You…you don't need me anymore."

"I wouldn't bet on that," replied Dean, staring straight ahead.

"Well, can ya at least tell me where we're headed?"

"Connecticut."

"But that's eight hundred miles away!" Chris protested. "It'll take us more than a day to get there!"

"Not the way I drive."

"But why do we have to go to Connecticut?" spluttered Chris.

"There's someone there I think you should meet."

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Sam wheezed heavily, his breathing reduced to sharp gasps of air. His chest heaved up and down in tune with his laboured breathing and his heartbeat still wavered, unable to overcome the severity of Molly's beating. A cold sweat racked his tormented body, augmenting the blood that flowed from his newly-opened wounds. His mouth and throat were extremely dry and he was parched with thirst, knowing that unless he got a drink of water soon, he was likely to die. And to make matters worse, the invisible chains that held him to the bed had strained his extremities until his arms and legs were numb, his skin chaffed raw and bleeding around each shackle.

There was nowhere that Sam didn't hurt, having survived more torture than most people could normally withstand.

Yet he doubted he could endure any more.

But dying might actually come as a relief. His suffering would finally be over and Molly wouldn't hurt him anymore.

If he could just let himself drift slowly into oblivion…

If not for another nagging thought in the back of his mind. The one that kept repeating his brother's name. Over and over and over again. And telling him not to give in.

But, by now, Sam was just barely coherent, consumed by his pain and anguish. His overstressed heart and laboured breathing robbed his body of sufficient oxygen making it almost impossible to distinguish reality from delusion as disjointed thoughts and strange images whirled around like a vortex in his distressed, pain-ridden mind. Striving to hold onto some sense of reality, Sam unwittingly began to surrender to the urge to die.

Until an eerily calm voice beside him snapped him back to his senses.

"_None of it matters anymore, Sam."_

"What are you talking about, Molly?" Sam wheezed hoarsely.

"_Chris. He doesn't matter. I don't want him anymore. I only want you."_

Sam furrowed his brow, trying to grasp what was she could be talking about as he tried to remember everything that had happened recently, the intense pain having suppressed his memory.

"_Come with me, Sam."_

"No, Molly" choked Sam, "I won't."

"_Please Sam. I need you."_

"No, Molly. You don't," rasped Sam between halted breaths. "You'll have to go without me."

"_I can't."_

"Yes you can, Molly."

"_But I don't want to."_

Sam gulped, gathering enough courage to say what he needed to say, even though he realized it might lead to a brand new level of torture. One that he would not be able to survive it.

"Tough," he asserted, faking conviction with his words, "Because you're going to have to. I'm _not_ going with you. No matter what."

Silence.

Until he was forcibly grabbed by the chin, his head forced upwards and back. Then Molly hissed, her grip tightening unmercifully.

Leaving Sam unable to breathe.


	19. Chapter 19

Dean drove like a man possessed, tearing up the road in his haste to get back to Connecticut. Back to Sam. He'd been gone much longer than he'd felt was safe. Accomplishing next to nothing in the interim. Other than finding out about Chris and learning that there was no way he could destroy Molly's spirit the easy, conventional way, the entire trip had been a colossal waste of time.

Dean barely acknowledging his distressed passenger the entire drive, mumbling little more than a few words during the journey. He had more important things on his mind. Things that warranted his attention much more than the trivial ramblings that occasionally sprouted from Chris Driscoll's mouth.

Like what he was planning to do once he got there. And how he was going to permanently get rid of Molly. Because, truth be told, he simply didn't have a clue.

Although he clung to the hope that a plan would eventually come to him.

The closer he got to Connecticut, the more Dean began to doubt his reasonings behind dragging Chris back with him. Although it had seemed like a good idea at the time, he wasn't quite sure how wise a decision it had actually been. Because other than using Chris to divert Molly's attention away from Sam, Dean couldn't think of any other plausible use for the kid.

He couldn't just leave the hapless jerk like a bear caught in trap for Molly.

Because as much as Chris probably did deserve some of the things her spirit might do to him, the guy still didn't deserve to die. Not at her sadistic hands anyway.

Approaching the outskirts of Brookfield, Dean breathed a sigh of relief and turned to his passenger. "Almost there, Dude."

"Brookfield?" enquired Chris, revealing his superior intellect after obviously having read the highway sign displaying their current whereabouts. "But I don't know anybody in Connecticut."

"Oh yes you do."

"Who?"

Dean glanced over at Chris, a bemused smirk on his face. "Your old girlfriend. Molly."

"B...b...b...but I thought you said she was dead."

"She is."

Chris scowled. "I…I don't get it."

"Trust me. You will soon enough," replied Dean, turning his attention back to the road.

"But if Molly's dead and you came to Michigan to find her body, how can she be here now," questioned a mystified Chris. "How is that even possible?"

Sore, worried and tired, both physically and mentally, Dean wasn't about to try to explain the unexplainable to the shit-for-brains loser who had been responsible for this whole misadventure. Instead he glared at him, the order to be quiet, evident in his icy gaze.

Although, for good measure, he voiced an order. "Shut up. Just. Shut up," as he turned the Impala into the familiar motel parking lot.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Her hand tightening around Sam's neck, Molly's outrage began to subside. But it didn't dissipate anywhere near fast enough. Sam slowly turned a ghastly bluish-white, deprived as he was of a readily available supply of oxygen.

He was exhibiting the telltale sign of acute asphyxiation.

And only when it became apparent that Sam had drawn his last breath did Molly finally relinquish her hold, slowly removing her hand from around his throat as she stared down at his lifeless body sprawled out across the bed. It had taken some time and drained all her energy but she had finally accomplished what she had wanted from him all along.

He had been so very, very difficult, resisting her every step of the way and opposing everything she had tried to do in order to get him to come closer to her. His defiance had only succeeded in fuelling her anger, forcing her to lash out in more and more inventive ways to obtain what she needed for her own survival. If he had only been more compliant, more willing to appease her, it could have gone so much differently. He wouldn't have suffered as much. But his lack of cooperation had upset her and caused her to do things that she otherwise would not have done. And, of course, there had been a purpose behind all the things she had done. A reason for every one of her actions.

Because she had been so very, very lonely.

Her loneliness had consumed her for so long, leaving nothing behind but complete and utter despair. A desolation that picked away at her, until she was only a mass of hatred and isolation. She didn't understand how it had occurred. How everyone and everything she had known and cared about in the world had suddenly disappeared from her life. It was as if she had been inexplicably cut off from the entire world and the resulting isolation had dehumanized her. Her sense of alienation grew unchecked and, in time, mutated into a deep, dark resentment that churned inside her and gave rise to an unnamed and unbridled anger that turned her into a shadow of her former self.

She had nothing. And no one. She was completely alone in a big, empty world that she no longer understood or felt a part of. A world that seemed to have forgotten all about her. Trapped in it and unable to escape she eventually forgot or suppressed the memories of all the people and things she used to hold dear and began drifting like an outcast in an endless void that overtook her entire existence.

But that all changed in an instant.

The day she perceived a presence.

Something – or someone – was near by. Something that she felt she would finally be able to connect to. Something that would finally understand her. She had waited for this for so long and she tracked the presence, rushing to the location where its essence was the strongest. But by the time she arrived it had already moved on. Dismayed and angered by the cruel twist of fate, she left, once again wandering aimlessly off alone.

That is, until she felt it again.

But, by the time she returned to the exact same place she had felt it before, the presence was gone. But she was encouraged by the potency of its residual power and she decided to wait in case it came back.

And it did.

A short time later she felt it beckoning to her so strongly that she was momentarily paralysed and once again failed to join up with it before it moved beyond her reach. But, as before, its aura lingered in the vicinity and she anxiously awaited its return.

And when the presence did come back again, she heaved herself at it without much more than a single thought.

But the presence had been moving far too fast and she missed it. Filled with an inexplicable rage at her failure she became convinced that that the presence was responsible. It had initially contacted her, luring her toward it, but was now simply mocking her lack of skill. It was playing a game of cat-and-mouse. One that she was determined to win at all costs.

The next time it appeared she resisted the overwhelming urge to unite with it, choosing instead to simply watch and calculate the best way to connect with it when it next passed through. And when it did return, going the opposite way, she leapt ahead of it as it approached, determined to catch it no matter what.

And, after a brief interlude, she found herself enclosed in a small, confined space unlike anything she had the capability to remember. At first, the sights and sounds that surrounded her were strange, the images and noises odd and unfamiliar. Yet the force of the presence was overpowering and it remained fixed and steady in front of her, although it seemed to have forgotten all about her.

But with each passing minute the other things around her became more vivid and alive, turning from vague and unrecognizable into concrete shapes and identifiable sounds. The two dark silhouettes in front of her morphed into human shapes which Molly soon recognized as males and shortly after realized without a doubt that she was in the backseat of the oldest car she had ever been in.

She was immediately drawn to the younger of the two males for it was from him that the presence seemed to radiate. Yet, try as she might, she just couldn't seem to communicate with him. He simply ignored her. Or pretended that she didn't exist.

It was the same as it had been before she felt the presence and her anger and resentment began to grow again. As her rage intensified, she grew stronger and more in control of herself and her newfound abilities. Soon she was able to mingle with her companions, although direct communication remained elusive. She let her displeasure at being overlooked be known when she stole a particularly annoying music cassette that had been played in the car over and over. She brought the cassette with her when she followed the two males into their motel room, placing the tape under the pillow of the one who had initially summoned her. Yet, when the other male found it he dared to pretend that he had no idea how it could have gotten there.

Once again, she was been snubbed.

The two males continually followed one another, seldom separating or parting ways for very long and Molly began to resent the older one. He dominated the other's time and demanded his undying attention, making it apparent that the younger one ignored her simply because of his brother. Wanting nothing more than a simple acknowledgement from the younger brother, Molly found a way to be noticed; she wrote a poem on his laptop.

Yet, after he read it, he simply shut the computer off as if it meant nothing. A further wound to her fragile existence.

The next time they left she decided to tag along. But the loud, pulsating poor-excuse-for-music-but-nothing-really-but-annoying-sounds-mixed-together that they kept playing in the car's tape player riled her already frazzled nerves and she ended up tossing the entire tape collection out the window. When the older male got out of the car to retrieve them, Molly immediately locked the doors. Her opportunity to be alone with Sam.

But his concern focused only on his brother's plight and Molly's anger resurfaced. She left them and returned to the motel, trashing everything that belonged to the older brother until all of his belongings and half the room was demolished.

Her anger spent, Molly reviewed her handiwork. Although happy with what she had done, she feared that her deed would cause her more problems than she wanted when all she really wanted was some attention from the man who had originally summoned to her. In order to gain his favour she decorated his bed with fresh flower petals and drew him a peace offering on the wall.

Still, her efforts were rebuffed when he agreed to forsake her in order to follow his overbearing brother out of the room. So she threw the brother outside and chained Sam to the bed. At least she knew she would have his undivided attention now. But his brother still refused to leave them alone so she sent him a warning with a physically lambasting. And, although she gained a small level of satisfaction in that Sam finally began to converse with her, his main concern centred around the condition of his brother.

Wanting to prove to him that his brother was still alive in order to gain his acceptance, Molly brought Dean back into the room. And after a few rough moments, things had progressed well enough that Sam even convinced him to leave on his own, leading Molly to believe that he was finally going to cede to her wishes. But a true sense of intimacy remained elusive as Sam continued to fight her at every turn, denying that he wanted to be with her as much as she needed him to be.

If she couldn't get him to connect to her, she might remain alone and separated from everything forever. Her mind darkened at the possibility and her anger began to spin wildly out of control. Desperate to secure his favour, her emotions pulled downwards by the same dangerous force that had engulfed her years before, she resorted to tactics that would have appalled her in her former life. Yet, no matter how she tried to encourage him, he continued to resist and she grew more frantic as she tried to elicit his consensus in more ingenious and torturous ways.

But he remained apart, refusing to submit to her. Her rage exploded until it knew no bounds. She poked and prodded at his physical being, stabbed and injured him, trying everything she could to wear down his resolve so that he would acquiesce to her need for him. She watched him choke and gag, moan and cry yet neither of them seemed willing to relent. She couldn't. Her loneliness had become too much to bear and she needed someone to end her pain and suffering.

Because only when he agreed to end hers would she be willing to end his.

Yet through it all she simply wanted him to accept what the presence he carried within him told her. That he was her desired companion. That he was the someone that she was supposed to stay with her. He was the someone that she would end her loneliness.

After all, he had made the initial contact with her. And why would he have contacted her if he didn't mean it?

But it was his barrage of protests and denials that finally caused her to snap. She decided that she would have him regardless of his lack of consent. He would join with her and they would be bound together.

Forever.

His acceptance could come after that.

And she had done it. Choked the resistance right out of him. Put a stop to his naysaying.

Now all she had to do was wait for him to come to her.


	20. Chapter 20

_Finally! After way too long my muse finally resurfaced and I was able to finish this! Sorry for the length of time it took to complete!  
_

_Thanks to all those who stuck with it! Hope it's worth the wait  
_

_

* * *

_

Shifting into neutral Dean cut the engine as soon as he turned off the highway, not wanting to let the telltale rumble of the Impala's engine alert Molly to his return. And as the car coasted further into the parking lot Dean couldn't help but glance toward the curtain-shrouded window of the room he still technically shared with his brother, only to be painfully reminded of the horrible situation inside.

A deep pang of guilt immediately washed over him. Because, not only had he left Sammy alone with Molly, he had done so more-or-less willingly. Or - if not willingly - at least of his own accord. Even though he had known that Molly had been seriously intent on causing his little brother harm. And, not only had he left the room voluntarily, he left the motel, the immediate area, the city, and then the state.

Left to embark on a two-day, two-thousand mile, round-trip to Michigan that, when all was said and done, had amounted to nothing more than a colossal waste of time.

He was still no closer to freeing his brother from Molly's evil clutches than he had been before he'd left. He hadn't been able to locate Molly's remains in order to salt and burn them, making it impossible for him to destroy the malevolent spirit. He still hadn't even figured out how he could.

He had no ideas. And no plan.

Nothing.

He didn't even know how he was going to get back inside their room.

And he sincerely doubted that Molly had unlocked the door while he'd been gone. Nor did he think that simply walking up to the door and knocking, followed by his sweetest '_Hi-honey-I'm-home'_ routine wasn't likely to get him inside either. It was much more likely to result in another physical go-round with the volatile poltergeist; something Dean needed to avoid at all costs. Because as much as he hated to admit it, he knew he was currently in no shape – either mentally or physically - to try to take her on again.

But the good news was that she hadn't come rushing out through that same door and proceeded to tear him to shreds. Probably because, for whatever reason, she wasn't yet aware that he was sitting right outside.

But how long that would last was anybody's guess.

And something that Dean desperately needed to use to his advantage.

Glancing quickly over at Chris, Dean regretfully realized that he was nothing more than a useless, naïve kid. Albeit, the very kid who was responsible for having released Molly's vengeful spirit and placing Sammy's very existence in jeopardy. And, by doing so, making Dean want nothing more than to tear him apart piece by piece, limb by painful limb, until there was nothing left of him.

But doing so would be just another waste of time. And would only relegate Dean down to the same level as Molly.

Sighing, Dean cleared his mind and seriously set about formulating a plan.

The first thing he had to do was figure out how to protect Chris. Because, whether the poor kid knew it or not, he was going to be Dean's ticket into that room. And, regardless of his true emotions, Dean didn't really want to see the same thing happen to him that was happening to Sam.

Dean just needed to use him as a diversion.

Throwing the gearshift into park, Dean reached into the backseat and grabbed the big bag of salt that was sitting on the floor behind him, a deep and searing pain ripping through his torso as he lifted it into the front seat. Instantly reminded of his current physical limitations Dean nevertheless manoeuvred the bag onto his lap before taking a deep breath, opening his door and setting the heavy sack gingerly on the ground.

Before getting out, Dean turned toward Chris and ordered, "Whatever happens, don't get out of the car. Don't roll down the window. And don't open the door. Do you understand me?"

Chris stared bewilderedly back at him, answering only. "I thought you said Molly was here."

"She is," replied Dean as he slowly got out of the car, "Just not quite the way you remember her."

"What do you mean by that?"

Dean glared down at Chris, not bothering to offer an explanation. "Just stay in the car."

Walking around to the back of the Impala Dean opened the trunk, being careful to be as quiet as possible. Rummaging through the vast array of weapons and supplies, he selected a silver 6-shooter that he tucked securely into the waistband of his jeans. Then he grabbed a dusty, cloth bag from the back of the trunk that contained the last of their goofer dust. He went back to where he had left the bag of salt and poured the entire contents of the cloth bag into the salt, hoping that, without any lore to back him up, the combination of the two ingredients would be strong enough to keep Molly away from Chris long enough for him to rescue Sam.

Because Dean's was theorizing that as soon as she caught sight of her old boyfriend, her memories and feelings for him would come flooding back and she'd immediately go after him, forgetting all about Sam and thus providing Dean with the opportunity to save his brother.

The trick was going to be getting her to spot Chris _before_ she noticed him.

After emptying the cloth sack, Dean stirred the goofer dust into the salt until he was satisfied that they were thoroughly mixed whereupon he refilled the cloth bag and stuffed it inside his jacket pocket; thinking that having some on his person just might prove to be handy. Standing, he hoisted the heavy bag onto his hip and began to pour a thick, solid line of the mixture all the way around the Impala. When he was finished Dean readjusted the bag's position and, with mixed emotions about what the salt might do to his precious baby, he nevertheless ran an unbroken line of it along the bottom of each window as an extra precaution.

As he approached the front passenger door, Chris lowered the window and stuck his head out, enquiring innocently, "What the hell you doin', Man?"

Dean paused, casting him his best _don't--question-me_ glare and replied curtly, "I told you not to roll down the window."

Chris stared at him momentarily, unsure what to think, before he ultimately decided against challenging the older man and rolled the window back up. Dean took a deep breath to replenish his waning strength and then covered the small ledge of the passenger window with the salt composite. Looking over his handiwork to satisfy himself that he had protected both his car and the moron inside it from Molly's wrath as best he could.

Dean dropped the near-empty bag of salt on the ground, grateful to be freed of its cumbersome weight before striding to the back of the Impala, grabbing an old sledgehammer from the trunk and quietly lowering the lid until it latched shut.

With no real idea of what he was going to do next, Dean headed toward the motel room door, wielding the sledgehammer high above his head.

****

Molly sat on the edge of the bed, expecting Sam to join her at any moment. But he didn't appear and she found herself growing more anxious as more and more time passed. She began to wonder what she had done wrong and why he hadn't yet joined her. After a while the stillness in the room began to overwhelm the antsy poltergeist and she found herself listening to the intermingled noises filtering in from outside in the hopes of hearing Sam's approach.

Listening to the jumbled dine for even the slightest hint that Sam was nearby and looking for her, there was, for one brief moment, a low rumbling sound that she thought she recognised. But as she started to hone in on it, the noise abruptly stopped and she was once again left straining to detect any indication of Sam's arrival.

And she waited, Molly noticed a strange stirring inside her, suggesting that someone or something that she should recognize was nearby. But the feeling didn't match what she had felt the very first time she had discovered Sam's presence and instead of a calming, welcoming sensation it made her feel edgy and uncomfortable, as if this presence denoted a horrible connotation or memory. And although she tried to ignore it, the uneasiness grew inside her, making it harder and harder to focus on the noises outside; they all seemed to be hovering right outside her door. Finally, in her heightened state of anxiety and desperation to find Sam, she was certain that he must be out there, unable to locate her and she sprang from the bed.

As she rushed to the door, Molly completely missed the low, raspy intake of air from the bed behind her…

****

Dean was about to break the door down with the sledgehammer when the door suddenly flew open. Without a moment's hesitation, he instinctively jumped to the side, fearing that Molly had finally sensed his presence. His heart pounded loudly in his ears as he stood with his back pressed tightly against the outside wall, fully expecting Molly to come out and clobber him.

Only she didn't.

And, for what seemed like an eternity to a man holding his breath, Dean managed to remain immobile, not knowing where the invisible poltergeist was. The weight of the still-upheld sledgehammer drained what little energy he had and, if not for the adrenaline pumping through his body, he would have dropped the damn thing right then and there. But the appearance of his adversary, his hunter's instincts and sense of self-preservation had both kicked into high alert and Dean was able to defeat his overwhelming fatigue while he waited for some something to reveal what had become of Molly.

He didn't have to wait long for, for within seconds of the door flinging open, a slight breeze blew past him, causing Dean to fear that Molly really had seen him. But resisting the temptation to move, Dean continued to scan the area for signs of her whereabouts while he waited for her to grab him. But a moment later he noticed a very slight stirring in the salt mixture around the Impala and he stared at it with bated breath as more and more grains of the salt and goofer dust began to dance in the air, hoisted up by what appeared to be Molly's frantic travelling around the car as she must be searching for a way in.

His plan had paid off.

Molly had to have seen Chris and recognised him, the mere sight of him enough to jar her memory and cause her to focus on him and hopefully forgetting all about Sam. Dean watched for only few more seconds to be convinced that the ring of salt would hold and Chris would follow his orders to stay inside the relative protection of the Impala before he turned and dashed into the motel room.

But the sight that met his eyes almost made his heart stop.

Blood was everywhere. On the furniture, the walls, the carpet, and the bed. But mostly it covering virtually every inch of Sam's lifeless body, the patches of skin that poked in only a few places a dreadful bluish-gray. The entire room resembled a warzone of days-gone-by and Dean stared despondently at the mess that was his brother, the horrible reality of the situation sinking in.

He had taken too long.

And arrived too late.

His baby brother was dead.

Overcome with despair, Dean drew his hands into tight fists, choking down the scream that was threatening to burst from his lungs and ran toward the bed. He stared momentarily down at his brother's inert form before giving into his anguish and pounding his fists down heavily on Sam's chest, causing his little brother's body to flail on the bed like a ragdoll. A single tear dripped from Dean's eye as he straightened up, his devastated gaze fixated on his brother.

Surprisingly, Sam coughed. A weak, phlegmy cough that raked his entire body before giving away to a small outburst of feeble coughing. Sam's eye's flickered open as he tried to catch his breath while Dean hurriedly cradled his head and shoulders in his arm as he pushed the pillows under his brother's head to enable Sam to breathe easier on his own. And while his breaths were shallow and laborious at first they soon began to strengthen and become more steady.

Sam glanced up at Dean through blood-encrusted lids. "Molly?" he enquired weakly, his voice nothing more than a throaty whisper.

"My problem now, Dude," came Dean's quick reply, although he didn't feel anywhere near as confident as his words made him sound. He reached for the blanket that was crumpled at the foot of the bed and went to pull it over his brother.

But that gave him an idea.

"Stay with me, Sammy" Dean replied, giving his brother's shoulder an gentle, affectionate pat.

He waited only long enough for Sam to give a barely noticeable nod, before yanking the blanket off the bed and headed hastily for the bathroom. Throwing the blanket in the bathtub, Dean quickly inserted the stopper and turned the water on full-force. As the tub filled with water, he pulled the cloth bag from his jacket pocket and, after saying a short prayer to himself, poured its contents into the water. Then he ran out of the bathroom and quickly located a rosary in Sam's bag.

Back in the bathroom, Dean dropped to his knees in front of the bathtub. He spread the blanket out in the water as best he could, making sure it was completely submerged before carefully placing the rosary on the middle of the blanket. Then, in what may have been his best and fastest recitation of Latin ever, Dean proceeded to bless the tub full of water and its contents.

Not knowing if his plan would work or not, Dean knew that he was out of time. And out of options. Flying by the seat of seat of his pants had always been one of his trademarks and he was hoping that his years of acquired knowledge about the supernatural would give credence to his impromptu, unproven hypothesis. Fully aware that he had little more than a snowball's chance of Hell in succeeding, Dean dragged the heavy, soaked blanket out of the makeshift holy water and gathered in up in his arms.

Sprinting from the bathroom, Dean stole a quick glance at Sam to reassure himself that he was still breathing before he headed for the door in search of Molly. Which, given her lack of a visible body, was going to be slightly harder than finding a needle in a haystack.

And about 800 times more dangerous.

He paused as he reached the threshold of the door, already panting from the physical exertion, each breath an aching reminder of how injured he still was. Staring out at the Impala he was surprised to see it rocking wildly on its wheels as Molly ran in rapid circles around the car while Chris sat terrified, pressed tightly against the passenger seat, inside it.

Somewhat surprised that Chris had actually listened to him, Dean took a long, deep breath as he watched the movement of the levitated salt to determine which direction Molly was going before he leapt from the doorway, unravelling the blanket as he dashed toward the Impala. Stopping just outside the salt ring, he lifted the blanket, letting it fall unhindered to the ground. A second later, just as he'd hoped, Molly crashed into it, causing Dean to stagger backwards. As he worked to regain his footing, Dean quickly lowered his arms, enveloping Molly within the folds of the blanket.

Using the full weight of his body to force her to the ground, he was amazed at how physically real she seemed, the outline of a human body completely visible beneath the blanket. Despite his exhaustion Dean held tight to the blanket, kicking its edges underneath the struggling poltergeist as he held her securely to the ground with his arms and legs.

Molly fought hard to escape the confines of the blanket and it was all that Dean could do to keep her restrained. She punched, kicked, wriggled and squirmed with all the strength and power of a typical netherworld entity, testing Dean's endurance. He was beginning to doubt the viability of his plan, wondering whether all his efforts to this point had been futile, when he suddenly felt her beginning to lose strength.

Uncertain if she was simply tiring and preparing to recoup her energy, Dean tightened the blanket to reduce her range of motion and decrease her ability to break free. But as he pushed the blanket around her body, her form seemed to disintegrate. Everywhere he touched appeared to give way, making her body smaller and smaller and finally convincing him of the effectiveness of his plan and giving him a second wind.

Dean continued to press down on the blanket, tucking it in as fast and as tightly as he could to keep it in contact with his nemesis. But as soon as he tucked in one side it grew loose again as her body dissolved beneath it. Working frantically, Dean thrust and shoved, punched and pummelled the blanket until it lay crumbled on the ground with absolutely no possibility of anything remaining underneath it. Still Dean persisted, tromping all over the blanket with his hands and knees until it was completely stretched out and flat. Only then did he stop and sit up. Leaning back on his heels as he recovered his breath, Dean surveyed the aftermath of his efforts.

The blanket was tattered and torn; whether from the force of containing Molly's spirit or from the physical punishment he had dealt it while destroying her was unknown. The ring of salt around the Impala was still intact – but just barely. In some spots it was less than a quarter of an inch thick, making it obvious that Dean hadn't confronted her any too soon. Dean looked up at Chris, who was still sitting terrified inside the closed-up car and staring back nervously at him. But he was least of Dean's worries.

Without further hesitation, Dean jumped up. He ran back into the motel room, slowing as he approached Sam's bed; his concern for his brother once again rising to the forefront.

Dean had just barely made it to the side of the bed when Sam opened one eye and painfully looked up at him.

Again he queried quietly, "M…Molly?"

"Dead."

"H…how?"

Melted. Just like the wicked witch. It was awesome, Sammy. Too bad you missed it."

_Fin_


End file.
